


Borrowing Courage

by XxTheDarkLordxX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Community: hd_erised, Drinking, Epic Friendship, Eventual Smut, Exploding Snap, Flirting, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, H/D Erised 2018, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Theory, Minor Ron Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Mystery, Painter Draco Malfoy, Portraits, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Rimming, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Self-Discovery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-01 23:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 70,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxTheDarkLordxX/pseuds/XxTheDarkLordxX
Summary: After years of being a Magical Artist and painting for other people, Draco decides it’s time to paint for himself for once. The secrets pile up as he tries to unravel the mystery of his relatives but the only thing he didn’t count on was having to go to Potter of all people for approval.





	1. Reunions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyonessheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonessheart/gifts).



> I would like to say thank you to the mods for putting together Erised and all their hard work. And to my beta Sandy, you are a rock star. I couldn’t imagine getting this far without your hard work and sleepy nights. Tempe, Gigi, you both are my rocks and I love you so much for the support and listening to me vent. I would also like to thank Korlaena, Sirene, PotterArt, and Scarlet47 for their patience as I asked a million art questions. 
> 
> I hope you all can experience the magic of art through Draco and maybe go on the adventure beside him.

Nervous. 

Draco could count on one hand the number of times he had been nervous in his life. The first time he broke something and knew he’d face the wrath of his father. The first night at Hogwarts when he knew he couldn’t sneak into his mother’s room and let her hold him. The first time he saw the Dark Lord in person and realised his entire life would be dictated by one moment—and the many mistakes that came from that. And the first time he realised what he wanted to do with his life and stepped back from his father’s expectations. 

The underlying connection was firsts. He supposed change would fall into that, but perhaps it was the unknown that made him nervous. But as he stared at the Weasley residence, he knew that it wasn’t the unknown that affected him; it wasn’t his first house visit so there was no excuse there. Draco wasn’t entirely sure why his hands felt clammy, nor could he still the palpitations in his heart. 

“I can’t do it,” he whispered to himself as the light from the half-opened curtains highlighted shadows around him. 

“Oi!” The muffled yell caused a small smile to form and he hated that it calmed him already. “I didn’t waste months of my life in your stupid dungeon for you to back out now.” 

Draco raised the packaged painting in his hands and wished he could see the scowl he knew would be there. 

“It’s not a dungeon, you uncultured swine. It’s my studio.” 

“Studio my arse,” came the aggravated tone that Draco had come to appreciate over the last six months. “You are lucky I’m dead or I would hex you and your stupid attractive face too.” 

“Attractive, huh?” Draco asked, brows arched. Merlin, he wished the painting wasn’t covered. 

“Draco.” 

“Fred.” 

“It’s going to be okay.” 

He closed his eyes as he let the words reassure him despite the urge to turn around and flee. “What if they don’t like it?” 

“Well, ‘it’ is me, and they better like it.” 

A half-snort, half-sob left Draco as he tried to gain better control over his emotions. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“I won’t miss you at all.” 

The snort turned into a full laugh and he heard an echoing laugh in return. 

“You’re the best at what you do,” Fred whispered, voice barely heard over the light breeze. “I’ve been dead 10 years and yet you were able to paint me. That’s mad. I don’t know what kind of records have been broken since I’ve been dead, but the last thing I remember, the longest time for an artist to paint someone deceased was 7 years.” 

“Gunnar Pierce,” Draco said. “He was an amazing artist and also my mentor.” A pang of pain went through him at the thought of Gunnar. He would always cherish the moments he had with him. “I broke that record right after he died.” Gunnar had never gotten to see Draco’s proudest moment, never got to witness the moment the painting went active. 

“Anyone I know?”

“Cedric Diggory.” 

The sharp inhale wasn’t muffled, it wasn’t behind a package and it clearly wasn’t Fred. Draco spun around as he unsheathed his wand from his hip holster, only to lower it when he caught sight of a familiar but unwanted face. 

Draco had _known_ it was a possibility, but he just hadn’t expected to see _him_ , not when no one did these days, not when the legend of the man was whispered far more than sightings. 

“Potter.” 

“Malfoy.” 

Draco wasn’t sure what to make of the whole thing, wasn’t sure how to proceed. Potter had gone quiet after the war, only ever noticed sporadically in the papers, and never for long. He wasn’t sure what it was that Potter even did for a living, let alone if Potter had even stayed in the country. 

Potter looked nothing like Draco remembered, didn’t look like the boy who had won a war, didn’t look like the teenager that walked away from everything, and he certainly didn’t look like the rumours people gossiped about. Potter was taller than Draco remembered, his hair was long and tied into a bun, his glasses had been replaced by ones that framed his face and weren’t too large. Potter held himself rigidly but that could’ve been the situation itself. The beard that shaped Potter’s jaw was prominent and it was probably the one thing Draco was shocked about the most. 

As much as Potter had changed, Draco took comfort in the one thing that hadn’t—his eyes. Potter’s eyes were just as vibrant as they always had been. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“Likewise,” Draco said, eyes watching the way Potter watched him. It was almost nostalgic in a way, and his mind flashed to simpler times, when it was glances, glares and narrowed eyes across the Great Hall. 

“Is that Harry? Oi! Harry! Are you as ugly as Malfoy? Or did you get better with age? Because teenage you needed some work.”

Draco closed his eyes briefly before he put away his wand and shook the painting firmly. 

“Hey!”

“What happened to attractive?” Draco asked. “I distinctly remember something positive about my arse.” 

“No,” Fred argued. “I never said anything about your arse, although now that you mention it—”

“Ah, so you did say I was attractive?”

The brief silence that followed was as much of a confirmation as it got. 

“I hate Slytherins.” 

_“Fred?”_

The breathy whisper tore at Draco’s heartstrings, the heart he swore he didn’t have. 

“It _is_ you,” Fred said, his tone far more pleasant than he usually spoke when it came to Draco. Figures. 

“But,” Potter paused as his eyes looked to the package and then to Draco. “I—you did this?”

Draco nodded once, unsure if that was enough, he didn’t want to interrupt anything, not when it was clear that it meant something to Potter. 

Before anything else was said, the front door opened and the light from inside nearly blinded them. 

“Draco?”

He turned to the door and pushed the painting in Potter’s hands before he rushed forward when he saw who it was. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Blaise said that you were on-call and got a bad one.” 

Ron pulled Draco into a hug, and he selfishly wanted to hold on forever. 

“I got Simmons to take over the operation. I wouldn’t miss this for the world, you know that.”

He did, but the relief of having at least one friend had overshadowed everything else. 

“I’m nervous.” 

Ron snorted, and Draco wasn’t sure if it was at his expense or if it was for show. “Are you confident in your abilities?”

“Yes.” He was honestly insulted. Of course his work was up to par. 

“Are you confident in the final product?”

“Yes.” 

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” 

Getting his mind to believe that wasn’t as easy as Ron made it seem, but Draco chose to listen to him anyway. 

When Draco stepped back, and the light fell on Potter behind him, Ron’s face broke out into a wide smile, a smile Draco only saw when Blaise was nearby. 

“Harry!” 

Draco pulled the painting back from Potter, he ignored Fred’s grumbled complaints as Potter and Weasley hugged. 

“You were supposed to be here last week for the annual get-together, you wanker.” 

“I know,” Potter said, eyes closed as he buried his face in Weasley’s neck and hugged tighter. “I’m sorry, I got busy with a new idea and I couldn’t stop. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” 

“New idea, huh?” Ron asked as he stepped back. “More history? What is it this time? Roman Empire? The downfall of Merlin?”

“Egypt. Cleopatra to be exact.” 

The witch? Draco hummed, more confused than anything as Ron let out a low whistle. What would interest Potter about Ancient Egyptian wizards? 

“Come in and you can tell us all about it. Dinner is almost ready.” 

The way Potter’s eyes softened as he looked around the outside of the house had Draco even more nervous. This wasn’t where he belonged, and he wished Blaise could have come, wished that his best friend was with him. 

“It’ll be alright,” Fred whispered, and Draco hugged the painting closer to his chest as he crossed the threshold. 

As Draco looked around the room, he eyes widened at how the Weasleys had utilised the limited space they had. Pictures hung on the wall, nearly every available surface covered as well. The Manor had paintings, but never photos, that was too personal, that would have suggested they were a family. Small happy children waved in each photo and Draco could see a little Ron happily chasing an older sibling. It was easy to spot which ones were new additions as he could see Fleur holding a little boy while a girl who looked just like her ran around the room. From every surface, he could see the love they had for each other so clearly. 

The odd knickknacks and flying objects gave the place character, and part of him wished he had known about it when he had been a kid. He would have still been quick to insult and easy to judge, but at least he would have been aware that some families actually cared. 

“It’s not much,” Ron began as he gestured for Draco to take off his jacket. “But—”

“It’s perfect,” Draco said, eyes still roaming the room. He smiled when he caught sight of a garden chime hanging from the ceiling. The whole place had something to see and he was sure dozens of visits wouldn’t find them all. 

The noise of several people talking could be heard, and he assumed they were in the dining room. He surprisingly didn’t hear any children, and that had been one of his worries of the night. 

“Are the children not here?”

“No, that’s actually why Blaise isn’t here,” Ron explained as he led them both into the next room. “He said it would go smoother for your business if kids weren’t there for the first visit. So he’s watching them for the evening” 

“Why?”

Draco looked back at Potter, unsure if he wanted to explain his methods, but before he could, several voices spoke at once. 

“Harry!” Mrs Weasley yelled before she pulled Potter into a hug. 

“Yeah Ron, stop hogging him,” Ginevra said with a small smile on her face. 

“Welcome!” Mr Weasley opened his arms in a gesture of greeting, but Draco’s nerves were still high. He nodded to the rest of the room, unable to voice his gratitude. 

“Draco, what a surprise.” 

Draco looked to Hermione, the last one to have spoken. It was still a surprise to take in her rounded belly and new husband, Justin Finch-Fletchley. He greeted them both with a smile before he took in what she had said. 

“Surprise? What do you mean a surprise?”

A nervous laugh behind him had Draco turning to Ron with narrowed eyes. 

“The thing is, well you see—”

“You didn’t tell them?”

When Ron shook his head, Draco wanted to flee. Ron was his friend, and yet he blindsided him? It was always in his contracts that full knowledge was required. Surprising loved ones with a painting of a dead relative _never_ worked out. That was a mess he wanted to avoid, and Ron _knew_ that. 

“Tell us what?” Draco wasn’t sure if it was Charlie or Bill who spoke, he hadn’t exactly worked out telling apart gingers. 

“Ron,” Draco whispered, hands gripping the painting tighter. “Why would you do this?”

“I’m sorry,” Ron said as a hand rose to grip Draco’s shoulder, but he shook his head and took a step back. He knew his eyes were wide and probably showed his true feelings, but he didn’t know what to do. The panic began to set in and he just wanted to leave. Doing business with friends had been a horrible idea. 

“I didn’t know what to tell them.” 

“So you said _nothing?_ ” Draco eyed the front door and debated about his chances. When Potter stepped to the side, allowing him the room to leave, he had never wanted to hug someone so badly in gratitude before. But before he could go farther, another voice spoke up and the sound of it had him freezing. It was so familiar and so similar to the one he had gotten to know over the past months. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Georgie? Is that you?”

The glass in George’s hand shattered when it hit the floor. Angelina covered her mouth and Fleur gasped loudly. 

“I—uh.” Draco paused when 12 pairs of eyes were on him. “Ron hired me, and I think you all know what I do for a living.” 

He wasn’t really sure if they did; even after being friends with Ron for 4 years, he hadn’t ever actually met the Weasleys fully. 

“You’re a painter, aren’t you?” Angelina said, eyes on the package in his hands. 

“Yes, but I specialise in the restoration of deceased interpretations.” A few confused glances had him explaining further, “I specialise in painting those who have already died.” 

“Is that—” George’s hand covered his mouth and he blinked rapidly. 

“Ron hired me to paint Fred.”

The stunned gazes were exactly _why_ he never did surprise showings. The way they stared at him had his stomach clenching. He was going to kill Ron. 

“Don’t leave it all in suspense!” Fred yelled, the silence of the room making it sound far louder than it was. “I didn’t suffer for months with you to be left in this bloody wrapping.” 

Draco sighed heavily as he unwrapped the painting and laid it down on the table. As much as he liked Fred, he would be happy to see him go. 

“Oh Merlin.” 

Someone sobbed in the background, but Draco only had eyes for George.

“Wow, Georgie you got old.” 

An odd noise left George as he walked closer, eyes filled with tears and a hand still covering his mouth. 

“Freddie.” 

“Don’t cry,” Fred whispered, eyes soft and a tremor to his voice. “I’ve always been with you, you have to know that.” 

George covered his whole face, shoulders trembling and breath a quick intake. 

“I’ve missed you,” George said, the sound muffled. “So much. You left me all alone. I didn’t know how to be singular after always being a duo.” 

“Oh, George.” 

The tears of the families would never be easy to bear. That had always been his least favourite part. But as he watched the rest of the family break down, he knew it wasn’t fair. Ron shouldn’t have surprised them with the painting. 

“You were the better twin, and I’ve been in shambles ever since.” 

Draco blinked rapidly at the ceiling, unable to hear the sorrow in George’s voice without it hitting his own emotions. 

“I am the better twin, but you were always my favourite.” 

George’s head shook rapidly as he came closer to the table, a hand rose as if he wanted to touch Fred. 

“Please don’t touch the painting,” Draco said, unable to remain silent. He ignored the way George glared at him. “The magical residue in your hands will not mix well with my own that has been infused inside the painting, nor will it mix well with the essence of Fred’s that I was able to get.” 

“What will happen if someone touches it?” Hermione asked as she leaned forward to wipe her eyes. 

“It can corrode,” Draco and Fred said in unison. 

Draco glared at Fred and tried not to smile when Fred laughed loudly. 

“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve been in Draco’s dungeon for six months and he’s always talking about his rules. Grates on your nerves after a while.” 

“It’s not a dungeon. And you know what else grates on the nerves?” Draco asked, arms folded across his chest. “You.” 

“I’d like to think that I’m an acquired taste.” 

“Yeah,” Draco grumbled. At least they were in agreement there. “One that I don’t have.” 

“How did you do it?” Mrs. Weasley asked as she wrapped an arm around George and held him close. “How were you able to do this?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck when they all stared at him. “Sorry, I’m not used to my clients not knowing all the details. I thought Ron had explained things.” He glared at Ron, who was purposely looking elsewhere. 

“That’s alright, son,” Mr Weasley said, eyes on his wife. “We’ll be patient with you.” 

It was a small comfort, and he supposed that would be the best he’d get. 

“Painting in general is easy, but when you add in magic, things tend to go awry,” he said as he glanced around the room, unsure where to look. “Painting someone alive is far easier. I can look at them in person, I can see what they are like. If I were to paint one of you, I’d invite you for many meetings until I felt comfortable enough in knowing that my final product would be just as lively as the original.” 

He looked down at Fred, his shoulders relaxed at the easy acceptance so clearly there. 

“But when someone has died, my work becomes significantly harder. I have to rely on testimonies from friends, relatives, enemies and even sometimes strangers. I tend to like to look at memories, letters or anything left behind.”

“And you didn’t need us?” Ginevra asked. He wasn’t sure what to make of her tone. It wasn’t quite accusatory, but it was close. 

“I had the family side of who Fred was from Ron and even George.” 

Several people began to talk at once, and it all seemed as if George hadn’t told any of them about the meetings. 

“Since Fred had been a twin, it only made sense for me to seek out George. Ron admitted that he knew Fred just as well as you all, but only to an extent. He didn’t know him as well as George did. George gave me a few memories of Fred, and it helped immensely. I also reached out to friends and past teachers as well.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Fleur asked, accent coming through the more worked up she became. “We could have helped you, so you did not become burdened under the pressure.” 

“I expect the same reason Ron didn’t tell anyone,” Fred said. 

“I didn’t think it would happen, you know?” George whispered as he hugged his mother. “It seemed like a long shot. It’s been 10 years, that’s so unheard of. Fred was gone, and I accepted that a long time ago. Hoping would only make it worse if Draco couldn’t do it. So, I pushed it away and didn’t consider it a real possibility.” 

The doubts of his abilities _did_ hit Draco’s pride, but he understood. It wasn’t an easy thing to accomplish in his line of work. 

“You said something about Fred’s magical essence?” Potter said, eyes on Draco instead of Fred. 

“I was able to pull his magic out of his possessions that George still had.” 

“But don’t twins have the same magical core?” Justin asked with furrowed brows and a small frown. 

“No, they don’t,” Draco and Hermione said at the same time. She nodded once, as if telling him to answer for them. 

“Their magical core is _similar_ and can be very hard to differentiate, but there _is_ a difference. I just had to separate George’s magic from the lingering traces of Fred.” 

“And what does that do exactly? The essence?” By the burns on the hands, Draco assumed it was Charlie asking. 

“It helps solidify the base of the painting. I can paint anyone, but unless their essence is captured, then it’s just a faceless image—might as well be anyone at that point.” 

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Bill said quietly, an arm around Fleur’s shoulder. “Thank you for this. If Ron didn’t pay you enough, let me know.” 

“Oi!” Ron yelled. “I paid him his asking price. Even though I’m his best friend and should have gotten a discount.” 

“You aren’t my best friend.” 

“That hurts,” Ron mumbled as his lips twitched. “I’m dating your best friend then.” 

“Wait,” Fred interrupted before Draco could respond. “Hermione is Draco’s best friend?” 

The silence that followed was stilted and it caused Draco to shift from foot to foot. He hated socializing. 

“Well this is awkward,” Ginevra whispered, and Potter snorted. 

“Blaise is my best friend.” 

Fred blinked slowly, almost comically as his mouth parted. 

“You’re gay?”

Fleur and Ginevra tried to muffle their laughter but not very well as it could be heard around the silent room. 

“Bisexual, actually,” Ron said with a sniff. “So is Harry, and Ginny.” 

“Thanks Ron,” Potter added dryly. “For saying it for me.” 

“You tosser,” Ginevra murmured, but her lips were quirked upward, and he didn’t think she was upset at all. 

“I already knew about Harry.” Fred’s hand waved that away. “His crush on Cedric was so obvious I was embarrassed for him.” 

“Oh my God,” Potter whispered as he covered his face. “I shouldn’t have come here.” 

“That’s not all,” Ginevra said with a cackle. “Tell Fred about your crush on him too.” 

Fred gasped, eyes wide before he threw his head back and laughed. 

“Ginny, I told you that in confidence.” 

“Wait,” Ron yelled, arms folded angrily. “Why does Ginny know about this and I don’t?”

As they all argued with each other, Draco felt as if it was all surreal. He had never known a family quite like them. There were still a few tears, and he knew it would come back, but they were so open with each other. 

“I could have sworn you would’ve ended up married to Hermione,” Fred said during the next lull in conversation. “I even bet George 50 Galleons.” 

“Well we did get married,” Hermione said quietly, a pink hue staining her cheeks. “We realised after a year that we wanted different things. We married so young. We were 18 and thought we knew everything.” 

“Hah!” Fred clapped his hands once. “Then I did win the bet.” 

George rolled his eyes. “I’ll make sure to take Galleons with me to the afterlife.” 

“Wait, is that why instead of giving us a wedding present you just handed me 50 Galleons?” Ron wondered, a small wrinkle to his forehead. 

When George nodded, laughter broke out. “I wanted the bet to come full circle.” 

“So, who are you then?” Fred asked as he pointed towards Justin. 

“Justin Finch-Fletchley. I’m Hermione’s husband.” 

Fred winced slightly as Ginevra coughed pointedly. 

“The one Harry set that snake on back when the Chamber of Secrets was opened?” 

“Oh my God,” Potter whispered. “I really shouldn’t have come here.” 

“That would be me,” Justin laughed, hands coming up to cup his cheeks. 

The sound of a gong clanged around the room and several people stood up to enter the kitchen. 

“Dinner is done,” Potter explained when Draco looked around in confusion. 

Draco picked up the painting by the frame and set it against an unused chair to make room for the dishes that would be brought out. 

“What kind of cleaning care should we use for Fred?” George asked as he eyed the painting, a sad smile in place. 

“All of my paintings are self-cleaning, for the most part,” Draco said as he sat down in the only available seat next to Potter. “With any artwork, there will always be some kind of ageing or decay. I can show you a few simple spells that will prolong that, and I can always come by for yearly checkups. Free of charge.”

When no one said anything and just stared openly, he wasn’t sure what went wrong. “Any artist can, if you’d prefer someone else. But I’m sure they’ll charge.”

“No!” George rushed to say. “No, that’s fine. Thank you. We’d love it if you did.” 

He still wasn’t sure what had been the issue to begin with, but he took the explanation anyway. 

As far as dinners went, it wasn’t the best, but it was by far the most interesting. The Weasley family was something else. The way they cared so openly was a change of pace and he envied it in a way. 

By the time dinner was done and dessert had been eaten, Draco was positive he had been hugged by every member of the Weasley family twice. 

“Will you consider coming back for dinner next month?” Arthur, who insisted they be on a first name basis, asked. “We try to get together once a month, and we would love to see you again.” 

Draco had never been invited to anything past what was required for a client. Nor had anyone wanted to see him outside of his job either. He was touched. 

“I think I’d like that,” he whispered before Arthur pulled him in for a third hug. 

“Thank you for the lovely evening,” Draco told everyone as he put on his jacket. He waved at Fred. “I think you are my favourite piece. I might even miss you.” 

“I won’t miss you at all.” 

Draco couldn’t help but laugh despite the fact that his studio would be lonely again. That was always the saddest part when paintings were given to the families and the silence of his work room seemed louder than any conversation. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Potter said, not giving Draco any choice in the matter. 

As he stepped outside and began to walk down the path towards the Apparition zone, he eyed Potter discreetly. 

“Ron mentions you sometimes,” Potter said before he bit his lip. “I just assumed it was because of Zabini, you know? But I never really considered he was your friend for _you._ ” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” He didn’t like the way it was said, and his eyes narrowed on instinct. 

“I didn’t mean to insult you.” 

“Well you didn’t try very hard.” 

Potter’s lips twitched, and Draco would’ve loved to know what was funny about being insulted. 

“I just meant that I never stopped to consider you much. What you’d be like after the war. Never really paused to think of you at all.” 

“Well, now you made it worse. How is that _not_ insulting?”

When Potter laughed, Draco wanted to hex him. Potter hadn’t matured at all. 

“You surprise me, you know?”

“Well, you surprise me with how little manners you have.” 

The smile on Potter’s face confused him. He had never met someone that _liked_ to be insulted. Potter was an odd one. 

“I think your work is admirable.” 

Draco looked down when they reached the Apparition point. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to talk about his reasons behind his choice of career. Especially to Potter. 

“Thank you,” he settled on, eyes still on the ground. “It’s not easy, but I enjoy it.” 

“It shows,” Potter whispered. “Your work was beautiful. Fred looks just like I remember.” 

That was a compliment, and Draco unfortunately thrived on it. Getting accurate depictions for those that have died was hard, far harder than people think. So to know that he did well boosted his ego and soothed his worries at the same time. 

“Thank you,” Draco repeated. 

“I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” 

He glanced up only to look away when he realised Potter was staring at him intently, eyes unreadable. 

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Potter’s laugh rang out over the clearing and Draco marveled at how free it sounded. 

“Thank you, Malfoy.” 

He smiled slightly as he whispered, “You’re welcome.” He wasn’t sure why Potter had wanted to see him out, especially since most of it was insults, but he couldn’t say he was disappointed. 

“Ron talks about you sometimes too.” 

“Good things?”

“No.” 

The now familiar laughter would stay in Draco’s head. As would the way Potter held his stomach and put everything he had into it. 

“He just mentions the few times he sees you. I guess you are busy a lot.” 

Potter’s smile dimmed as he looked around the clearing. “I need to make more of an effort to be around. You miss a lot that way.” His eyes glanced towards Draco and the message was clear. 

“Then maybe I’ll see you at the next dinner? Or perhaps you can join Blaise, Ron and I for our weekly Exploding Snap night.” 

Potter’s brows arched, and his lips pressed together in an attempt not to laugh. 

“You know what, I take it back, you can’t join us.” 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, the snort right after making the statement completely unbelievable. “It’s just that, well, who gets together to play Exploding Snap?”

“We do.” He was honestly tired of Potter insulting him. “It’s competitive and we bet on it.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mhm. Alcohol tends to be involved too.” 

“Well maybe I will join.” 

“Oh no,” Draco shook his head. “You aren’t invited anymore.” 

Potter’s laughter rang in his ears long after he Apparated away. It wasn’t a sound easily forgotten, but he was going to try. 

\------------------------------------

Draco walked into work late, not that he cared about that when his eyes were still half closed. Sleep hadn’t come easy for him, not that it ever did. 

“It’s about time you came in,” Blaise scolded, feet on Draco’s desk, because _of course_ it wasn’t his own that he sullied. “I’ve been dodging the Floo for hours. Fudge insists that you take on his case immediately.” 

“Fudge can go fuck himself.”

He shoved Blaise’s feet off his desk before he plopped down with little grace and placed his head on a stack of papers. The pull of sleep was strong, but he knew if he didn’t get started on _something_ he’d be at his studio all night. 

“I agree but saying that is bad for business.” 

“What’s he want this time?”

“He wants you to do a painting on his sixth-great-grandfather.”

Draco’s head snapped up and so did the parchment stuck to his face. “What? Is he insane? I can’t do a piece that far back. There is no one left alive to tell the story.” 

“I explained that to him, but he is of the belief that family stories passed down should be enough.” 

The paper fell off his cheek and landed on the table, and he wished he could drop Fudge out of his life just as easily. 

“That’s stupid. I can’t do that, and he’s mental for thinking otherwise.” 

“Exactly,” Blaise agreed with a harrumph. “Which is why the next time he Floos, I need you to say that.” 

“Why me?” Draco was suspicious. Blaise wasn’t shy and loved telling people no. 

“Because it’s not my area of expertise.” 

The suspicion grew as Blaise shifted uneasily. 

“You are the office manager. You run the finances, handle the first run-through of customer meetings and you screen potential clients. This is _exactly_ your expertise.” 

Blaise’s shoulders slumped. 

“He’s dating my mum, alright?”

A low whistle escaped Draco and he sat up straighter. 

“Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because I only found out last night.” 

“And you didn’t Floo me immediately?”

“What are you, three? The gossip can wait.” 

“Pansy wouldn’t have waited.” 

“Well Pansy is the cow that left us to travel around the world.” 

Alright, Blaise had him there. 

“You want little contact with him, so the authorities don’t suspect anything when she kills him?”

“Do you have to be so crass? We could pretend she won’t.” 

Draco levelled Blaise with an unimpressed stare. “This is your mother we are talking about. She has a new husband every year. A new husband that mysteriously vanishes and leaves her significantly richer than before.” 

“Please, Draco,” Blaise begged. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure. “I didn’t want to talk to him let alone see him. He’s despicable, annoying, entitled and rich.” 

“So your mother’s type.” 

Draco yelled when Blaise hit him with a Stinging Hex to the shoulder. 

“Ow, you brute. Alright, I’m sorry. I’ll handle him.” 

“Thank you.” Draco’s shoulder envied the relief on Blaise’s face. 

“But you _owe_ me.” 

Blaise placed his chin on his palm as he leaned forward. “I’m listening.” 

Indecision caused Draco to bite his lip. He looked away to stare at the wall, unsure if he wanted to say it. 

“I want six months off.” 

_“What?”_

When Draco looked at Blaise, not letting the nerves show on his face, Blaise shook his head. 

“You already took a vacation last year. We aren’t needing the money, but your reputation needs another painting under your belt to ensure you get the certification from the Magical Art District this year. We were going to shoot for double certification.” 

“I know,” Draco said, and he did. He wanted that certification more than anything. It went to prestige artists that promoted the quality body of work that the Art District prided itself on. Not only could he charge more for his services with the award, but it was an honour to be included at all. 

“And I might still be able to do that.” 

“Not if you take off six months.” 

Draco rubbed his temples, a headache already forming. “I want to work on a piece for myself.” 

_“Oh.”_

The inflection in Blaise’s tone wasn’t welcome, he already knew where the assumption had been made. 

“Is it for—”

“No,” Draco said, tone hard and unforgiving. “It’s not.” 

“It’s okay to miss—”

“Blaise.” 

“Sorry, I just worry about you.” 

“You don’t need to.” 

The silence was uncomfortable, but Draco didn’t want to change it, as petty as that was. 

“Alright,” Blaise said after the silence had stretched into several minutes. “I’ll give you six months.” 

Draco glanced up, not feeling in the mood to remind Blaise that he didn’t _need_ permission, it was his business to begin with. 

“But if it cuts too close, then I’m entering one of your reject pieces for the certification.” 

“What, but that’s not—”

An arched brow made him pause. Blaise was right. If he couldn’t finish the piece in time then he’d have to submit something else. 

“Alright.” 

Being friends for so long, he could tell that Blaise wanted to ask but didn’t, and that mattered to Draco. He reached out a hand and gripped Blaise’s. The answering squeeze was enough. 

They’d be alright. 

The sound of an incoming Floo had them both rigid in their seats. Fudge.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. 

\--

Visiting the Manor never put Draco in a good mood, but he knew that to get answers he’d need to. The ostentatious build and gaudy design screamed wealth but never home. There was no warmth in the foundation, no love in the structures and nothing but emptiness in the construction.

The Manor may have been where he was raised, but it held no good memories.

As the gates to the property opened immediately, he knew his access to the wards was still in place, a surprise honestly.

The door opened before he could knock and a house-elf he didn’t recognise ushered him inside.

“Mistress Narcissa will be down soon.”

“Thank you.”

He knew she’d keep him waiting. It was a game of sorts, something she learned from his father. The minutes ticked by, but he refused to sit, that would play into her hands. If he was going to be here, it would be by his own standards.

The sound of her heels on the marble floor could be heard long before he saw her. Draco waited impatiently for her to walk down the stairs and he knew her slow gait was calculated—everything she did was calculated.

“How lovely to see you, Draco.”

His lips twisted into what he hoped was a smile as he turned to see his mother walk towards him. She had no smile, but that was to be expected.

“Likewise, Mother.”

“Do sit, we have much to catch up on.”

“Actually, I don’t have long. I came to ask you a few questions.”

When his mother’s eyes narrowed, he knew she read between the lines, knew she understood that he wasn’t going to cave.

“What kind of questions?”

“Character questions.”

Her mouth parted, and he knew she mistook his intentions, she always did.

“You mean you’ll redo it? You’ll fix—”

“No, that’s not what I am here about. I’m doing a different piece.”

Her lips thinned, and her eyes grew cold.

“Draco, we’ve talked about this. If only you’d just listen to reason. It’s okay to make mistakes.”

“I didn’t make a mistake,” Draco whispered, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. “I won’t redo it and you’ll be hard pressed to find someone that will.”

The familiar scoff that never failed to make Draco’s shoulders tense was heard, but he refused to look to the corner it came from. Refused to give any satisfaction.

“Then why are you here?”

The question didn’t come from his mother, but he was going to pretend it did.

“I’ve come to ask you, _Mother,_ what you know about Sirius Black.”

“Sirius?” Her head tilted back in surprise as her forehead wrinkled. “Your next piece will be Sirius?”

“What a joke.”

Draco clenched his jaw as he ignored the input that once again didn’t come from his mother.

“Yes, it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now.”

“You aren’t being commissioned?” His mother asked as she sat down, the first positive part of the whole meeting. With her making the first move, it made it easier for him to sit down as well.

“No,” he shook his head. “I want to do the piece for me.”

“Why? Why him?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her, at least fully. It wasn’t her business, but he knew that she wouldn’t answer him without _something_.

“Because he walked away. He walked away from everything we stand for and he did it at a young age. The same age I was when I did the opposite. The same age I was when I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Mistake?” The same scoff caused his shoulders to tense and he hated it, hated that it still got to him. “It wasn’t—”

“I didn’t _ask you,_ ” Draco snarled as he closed his eyes, unwilling to turn and look, unwilling to give in.

“Alright,” his mother whispered, and his heart beat faster in response.

“Narcissa, you can’t possibly humour this—”

“What would you like to know?”

Draco’s shoulders slumped in relief, grateful for his mother for the first time in years. He pulled out a notebook he kept for research and prepared to take notes.

“What was he like? Did you know him well? You’ve never talked about him much other than to say he was disowned.”

“He wasn’t disowned in the traditional sense,” his mother began as she sat more comfortably in the chair. “Aunt Walburga burned him off the tapestry, but that didn’t affect his status at all. It was more for show, a thing of pride. She wanted him to know that he could retain the Black name, but he wouldn’t be welcome in her home.”

“She didn’t care that he was only 16?”

“Walburga felt that if he could make the choice to leave at 16 then he could live with the fallout. She assumed he’d come back one day.”

“And did he?”

His mother laughed, the sound amused and a touch fond.

“Sirius? No. He wasn’t the type to go back on his fundamentals, and denouncing Dark Magic was one of his core fundamentals. Even as a child he was like that. Refused to play with Regulus unless the games held Light Magic.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not as well as I would have liked. I was only 5 years his senior, but my father tended to keep our families separate. Competition, really. There were rumours that Grandfather Pollux would choose one of us to take over after he died. My father chose to cut Walburga out of his life when her side was chosen.”

Draco paused, quill dripping ink on the parchment as he stared at his mother.

“But Regulus died before Sirius was imprisoned, right?”

A small amused smile quirked the corner of her lips.

“Yes. Considering Regulus’ death and Sirius’ imprisonment, it would seem that Pollux’s decision was unwise.”

“So then the decision went to your side of the family?”

“Not exactly. Bellatrix was imprisoned, and Andromeda was disowned. With the premarital contract my parents signed, nothing from my paternal side could come forward in the marriage. I was discounted to inherit the title of Lord of the Black family.”

“That’s barbaric,” Draco said, unable to fathom why anyone would agree to give up their titles for a marriage.

“It’s how it was back then. Be glad things have changed.”

“Did Sirius’ titles dissolve? Who was made the Lord of the Black family?”

When his mother leaned forward, there was a light in her eyes that he hadn’t seen since he was a child. It made him miss her, miss what they used to have.

“That’s the thing, titles and laws rarely go hand in hand. By law, technically the titles should have dissolved. But since when do we purebloods abide by the law?”

“Never,” they answered in unison and Draco felt a small smile tug at his lips.

“The Wizard Goblin Alliance Act of 1710 made it possible for inheritances, finances and titles to exist outside of governing law. Due to the Act, the Ministry could _not_ legally take Sirius’ titles, property or money, otherwise they would have to face the Goblins and they _never_ tolerate the Ministry’s demands.”

“So Sirius was able to keep his titles even while imprisoned?”

His mother nodded once, eyes on her entwined fingers. “Since Regulus died and the titles went to Sirius, and that was _before_ he was imprisoned, it made it possible for him to retain everything.”

“Why didn’t it go to Bellatrix?”

“I suppose it could have if she made a petition to Gringotts, but she was imprisoned herself shortly after and by the time she escaped, she wasn’t in a position to request anything as an escaped convict.”

“With Sirius dead, who retains the titles?”

“Potter.”

The quill nearly slipped from Draco’s grasp as he stared at his mother, unsure if he had heard correctly.

“Sirius made him his heir before he died. I suspect Dumbledore had some involvement in that considering he was still classified as a criminal at the time. Either way, Gringotts accepted and Potter holds the title as Lord of Black.”

That made things significantly harder for Draco, and he knew he’d have to talk to Potter at some point, but he didn’t want to.

“Did you ever talk to Sirius?” Draco wondered, hoping to gain more than just family facts. It would help overall, but he needed Sirius’ character, needed more than what he was given.

“Insults, polite conversations in public, but no, I never talked to him in the ways you are wanting.”

Draco sighed, more disappointed than anything, but he was still grateful for her time.

“Is there anything you can tell me about him that you observed?”

His mother’s head tilted slightly, and she appeared uncomfortable.

“I was a fifth year by the time he came to Hogwarts. I only spent three years observing his youth, so I can’t offer much as I wasn’t around for his adulthood.”

“That’s okay,” he reassured. “Anything you can offer is enough.”

“Sirius was rarely seen without his friends. I don’t know if that was a flaw or done by design. His dependency on them was always obvious, even in the later years his duels were predominantly in defence of his friends.”

It was clear that his mother considered friendship as a weakness and that spoke volumes to his own childhood.

“I often saw him smiling, and I can’t offer any knowledge as to whether it was real or for show. Those who never frown tend to be doing it on the inside. Sirius was wild, rambunctious and definitely the Gryffindor that he was sorted as. He was outgoing, and people tended to like him. He was not the family he came from, and that showed when Regulus came to Hogwarts.”

“They were that different?”

A laugh left her as she covered her mouth briefly. “Oh yes, the only thing they had in common was their surname. Regulus was the one who knew Sirius in ways that not even Potter or Lupin did. I thought they would fight, but they never did, at least not in public. They avoided each other, and I think it was because neither wanted to be influenced by the other. They wanted different things and that couldn’t be with each other.”

It sounded sad. Draco had always wanted a sibling, always wanted someone else around who could keep him company, someone he could love in a familial bond, someone who would be there for him. He couldn’t imagine having that and not getting along.

“I only know about him on the surface,” his mother continued, a slight frown on her face. “If you want to know more you’ll have to talk to those who knew him.”

“Most people who knew him are dead.”

“Potter’s not.”

“No,” Draco agreed. “He certainly isn’t.”

There were other avenues to check first. Potter was his final stop, and he was self-aware enough to know it was because he was procrastinating.

“Will you show me the final piece?” His mother asked as she leaned forward, eyes vulnerable in a way he had never seen. “I’d like to get to know my cousin, even if it’s only a painting.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’ll show you.” He couldn’t begrudge her that, not when he wanted to know Sirius as well.

Draco put away his things and stood up, nodding once when she looked at him curiously.

“Thank you for your time. It will help a lot.”

As he walked towards the door, he sidestepped the area that irked him the most, ignored the centre of his hatred.

“Draco.”

He paused with a hand on the doorknob. The tone was obvious, he knew what she would ask, it never changed.

“Please repaint him, _please_.”

“You want me to purposefully give you a false painting?”

“It wouldn’t be—”

“ _Mother_ ,” Draco begged, not bothering to turn around. He couldn’t look into her eyes, not now. “We both know that what I painted is _exactly_ who he was while alive. Anything else will be false.”

“Please,” she continued, and it broke his heart to hear her beg, something a Malfoy _never_ did. “I don’t want to remember him how he was. I want something else, even if it’s a lie.”

Draco looked sideways, looked at the painting he regretted ever doing. The near permanent sneer had always made his stomach churn, the pinched expression still lingered in his memories and the eyes so like his own stared back at him.

What his mother wanted was a sense of delusion. She wanted a husband who had never existed. She wanted someone who was made up of lies. Because no matter what she said, the painting of Lucius Malfoy was as rude, cruel and as bitter as the man who had once lived.

“Alright,” he said, regret already taking root. “I’ll repaint him.”

His mother’s choked gratitude was the _only_ reason he was going to do it. He ignored his own delusions as his mind imagined what it would be like to have a father who actually cared. He supposed he’d find out, whenever he finished painting the lies she so desperately wanted.

Could a lie fix the cracks in his heart? Could a lie change the nightmares of his memories? Could a lie change anything?

\----------------------------------


	2. Questions

When Draco Flooed into Blaise’s house, he could hear laughter and the sounds of their combined enjoyment would always improve his day.

“Oi! Quit hogging it all, I’m hungry,” Ron complained, the tone whiny and he wasn’t sure how Blaise put up with it.

“You’re always hungry,” Blaise said, and it held such fondness that he felt like he was intruding. “We have to save some for Draco.”

“He’d never know,” Ron countered. “The prissy git doesn’t eat much anyway.”

“Excuse you,” Draco said loudly as he turned the corner, he grinned at the way Ron yelled. When he pushed open the door, his smile melted into a smirk at the way Ron’s hand clutched his chest.

“It’s rude to show up without warning.”

“What are you on about? I added the extra Floo for a notice.”

“You did?” Ron frowned as he scratched his chin. “But I didn’t hear anything, that would mean—” He glared at Blaise who purposefully stepped away from Ron and moved towards Draco.

“Oh no you don’t,” Ron said as he wrapped his arms around Blaise’s waist and pulled him against his chest. “You prat.”

The grin on Blaise’s face was Draco’s favourite sight to see and he would forever love Ron for putting it there.

“Is it just us three?”

Ron and Blaise shared a look and he hated it when they did that. They had a language he couldn’t follow.

“Well who else would join?” Ron asked slowly. “Unless you mean Pansy and I’m sure we could Floo her for a little bit.”

“Oh,” Draco hummed. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

Blaise’s eyes were narrowed, and Draco hoped he appeared innocent enough to pass.

“Did you invite someone? Do you finally have a boyfriend?” Ron asked, mouth parted as if the prospect of a boyfriend was out of Draco’s reach. The fucking wanker. “Because you need to get laid.”

“Excuse you, but I am doing just fine alone.”

The dual snorts weren’t welcome, and he wondered why he bothered showing up at all.

“I sort of invited someone, but I guess they aren’t showing up.” Not that he had really given Potter a proper invite.

“Who is it?”

“Does it matter?” Draco told Blaise. “They didn’t show up.”

When Ron said nothing, he grew curious. Draco didn’t like the look of concentration on Ron’s face, nor the intense stare directed his way.

“Was it Harry?”

Draco looked down at his trousers and fiddled with an invisible thread.

“Maybe.”

" _What?_ "

The incredulousness to Blaise’s tone was comical, but Draco didn’t look up, didn’t want to see whatever was there.

“You absolute gobshite. You got on my case about not telling you about Fudge sooner and you didn’t tell me about this?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Blaise scoffed, hand coming up to cover his chest.

“You arse. I’m telling Pansy.”

“What? No, don’t do that—” He was cut off by Blaise turning towards the fireplace.

Ron’s silence was odd, and Draco was loath to do anything about it. He risked a glance up when it got too much to bear.

“Harry tends to get in his own head most days, don’t take it personally if he didn’t show up.”

That helped, but Draco still couldn’t read Ron’s expression, wasn’t sure what he thought.

“I think he thought I was kidding.”

“Were you?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered, unsure of everything. “Maybe?”

“Pansy, you are never going to believe this!” Blaise’s overexcited voice was too loud.

“If you hurt yourself during sex again, spare me the details. I don’t care how bendy Weasley is.”

It was a testament to how serious Ron was that he let the insult pass without saying anything, and it made Draco nervous.

“Just know what you want first,” Ron finally said, eyes hard but not in a bad way. It wasn’t often Ron was serious, and it made him want to stand up straighter. “Harry hasn’t had the best life, and neither have you, so please just think about it before you change what can’t be undone?”

“No,” Blaise said through a fit of laughter. “Draco asked Potter out.”

" _What?_ "

“No I didn’t!” Draco yelled, eyes still on Ron. His voice lowered to a whisper as he spoke directly to Ron. “Alright. It was just a harmless invite anyways. I don’t know Potter.” At least not enough, not enough to do anything, not enough to _matter_.

“Okay,” Ron returned, a hand coming up to his shoulder before it gripped it comfortably. “Okay.”

“He invited him to the get-together but Potter never showed.”

“You mean your lame Exploding Snap ritual? I wouldn’t have shown up either.”

“Hold your tongue!” Ron bellowed as he moved towards the fireplace and settled next to Blaise. “This is a time-honoured event and you’d be lucky to be invited.”

“Time-honoured, huh?” The sarcasm in Pansy’s voice was soothing in a way, and he missed her terribly. “Such a shame I’m in Morocco enjoying the sun, waves and pool boys.”

“What kind of pool boys?” Draco asked as he knelt near Ron, who wrapped an arm around his shoulder. The comfort came so easily, and he relished it.

“No twinks, so no one your type.” 

Ron and Blaise cracked up, which he did _not_ appreciate.

“I will have you know that I am into more than just twinks.”

“Is Potter proof of that?” Pansy returned, smirk on her lips and eyes bright even through the fire.

Heat rushed to his cheeks and he hated that she could get to him thousands of miles away. “I didn’t ask him out.”

“How are your travels?” Ron asked pointedly, and Draco could have kissed him.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed as she looked between them before they mellowed, and she smiled brightly.

“Lovely. Although it would be nice to see the sights with someone, but I find that the staff are always _welcoming_.”

“Ahh,” Draco said with a hum. “ _That_ kind of pool boy.”

This time he laughed along with Blaise and Ron despite her glare.

“I miss you guys, even your stupid Exploding Snap.”

“Those who can’t respect the rules of the establishment aren’t invited,” They said in unison, all three grinning when Pansy groaned miserably.

“We miss you too, Pans,” Draco promised, and he wished he could hug her. It had been far too long.

“I’ll make a trip home, _soon_ , I promise.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” Ron threatened as he entwined his fingers with Blaise.

As they said their goodbyes and the fire dimmed, Draco felt sad. It was more than missing Pansy. He was sad in general, and that seemed to be a mood he couldn’t shake as of late. Probably a sign he needed to make another appointment with his Mind Healer.

“Exploding Snap first? Or alcohol?” Ron asked, a deck of cards in one hand and Firewhisky in the other.

“Both,” Draco said, the solution for his mood in the form of the alcohol.

He pretended to ignore the look they shared again as he made grabby hands for the Firewhisky.

“Alright but that means I get to deal first.”

“Deal.” Draco hated when Ron dealt first, the cards always ended up weird and he was _sure_ that was proof that Ron cheated, but he wanted the Firewhisky more than he wanted to win.

“So, what was your day off like?” Blaise asked hesitantly when Draco downed his third shot.

“Peachy,” Draco drawled as he looked at his glass, eyes a little unfocussed. “Talked to my mother.”

Another look, more raised eyebrows, but he ignored it all. Delusion struck in many ways.

“Pleasant, as always.” The sarcasm was thick, even to his own ears.

“Did she—”

“Yes,” Draco cut Blaise off. “Of course she did. Never lets up, does she?”

“We could always talk about my day,” Ron said far too loudly. “I had a patient come in with a tuba up their arse.”

“And you know what I did?” Draco continued, ignoring Ron completely. “I eventually caved, because I have no backbone when it comes to her and she can still run my bloody life.” He slammed the glass on the table, setting off several cards that erupted in a flurry, many exploding in fright.

“Draco—”

“No.” It was whispered pitifully, and he hated it. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to drink until I forget what my family is like.”

“We’re your family,” Ron whispered, hand coming forward to hold onto Draco’s sticky hand.

Draco sniffed as he wiped his eyes in a hope that it didn’t show how much the words meant to him.

“Yeah?”

Another hand came forward to grip his other one and Draco looked to Blaise.

“I love you guys.” The alcohol must have hit sooner than he thought because Draco wanted to hug them.

This time when they shared another look, he was no longer upset, only fond.

“We love you too.”

Perhaps he didn’t have the best family by blood, but who was to say that was the only family that mattered?

Ron and Blaise were certainly his family in all the ways that counted.

\--

Draco looked up at the castle and hated that the last time he saw it was when it was damaged, cracked, broken and during the midst of a battle. Despite the fact that Hogwarts had been restored to the pristine condition it had been in before, he couldn’t shake the memories that refused to leave.

He made his way into the castle and ignored the curious students in favour of looking at the paintings on the wall. Even as a kid, he had been fascinated with them. He had wanted to know everything about them, how they worked, the magic behind it all and how to replicate it.

When he made it to his destination, Draco watched the gargoyles move without saying anything.

“She’s expecting you,” one of them gurgled.

 _Of course she was_.

Even the door opened on its own as Draco reached the top of the stairs.

“Draco, lovely to see you.”

“Minerva, always a pleasure.”

It was only when he stepped fully into the room and the door closed behind him that Minerva pulled him into a hug.

“It’s been far too long, and I bet you’re here on business.”

Guilt caused him to hold the hug longer than normal. “I’m sorry, I should have come sooner.”

“Nonsense, I’m an old woman and you’re busy. I’m only teasing.”

Still, he had missed her. Over his years of painting, he had needed teachers who knew the people he had been hired to paint, and that led to Minerva. He could still remember the first time he went to see her. It had been a few years after the war and she remained tight-lipped, angry and not a joy for conversations. But his work was never about him, only about the people he wished to capture, and she had come around eventually.

“Who have you come to ask about this time?”

Draco ignored the nosy paintings on the wall, except for one.

“Sirius Black.”

When Severus jerked in his painting, Draco wanted to laugh.

“Sirius?” Minerva whispered. “Who has hired you to do that?”

“No one.”

The concern on her face was nice, but he didn’t want it, didn’t want to be examined.

“Have you talked to Harry?”

Draco said nothing, but he hoped his silence was answer enough.

“He’d want to know.”

“I know,” he said, and he did. “I’ll talk to him when I need him.”

“Draco, I don’t think you understand—”

“Minerva, please, can you help me or not?”

The disappointment in her sigh hurt, but he was too far gone, too willing to keep going. He needed to do this, for himself.

“Sirius was sweet in ways many didn’t see.”

A disbelieving snort had Draco glancing towards his godfather.

“Don’t start, Severus,” Minerva warned, tone hard.

Draco pulled out his notebook and quill and he too ignored his godfather. “He was sweet?”

“When he _wanted_ to be,” she corrected. “Sirius loved to joke, it was hard to take most of what he said or did seriously, but when he let that fall, he was surprisingly gentle. You’d see it the most when he was with his friends.”

Friends. That seemed to be a recurring theme. He wished a friend of Sirius’ was still alive, someone who knew him well.

“Sirius was a bright student, much more than he let on. I told him a thousand times that if he just applied himself, he could do wonders.”

“I take it he never listened?”

“No, he was more into getting Remus to break the rules with him.”

“Did that happen often? Him convincing others to do things?”

“Oh yes,” she laughed. “Sirius had cunning when it came to that. He could convince his fellow students to do just about anything and then in the end they’d think it was their idea all along.”

Cunning indeed. He wondered if that was something Sirius picked up from his parents.

“I bet that made punishing him difficult.”

“Ha!” Minerva slapped her hand on the desk. “You have no idea. And where Sirius was, so was James, Remus and trailed by Peter too.”

It partially reminded him of Potter and his friends. He wondered who would have been the Sirius of that group.

“There were a few times Sirius talked to me about his family situations, and I told him that the school has programs in place to help students who need it.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He wondered just how bad it was at home for Sirius to talk to Minerva. “And did he take you up on that?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He was just as stubborn as he was brash. Sirius didn’t want the attention, didn’t want to be singled out for needing assistance.”

“What did he do then?”

“James Potter took him in. Or, well, his parents did.”

Oh. Draco hadn’t known that. That would have been a strong friendship, one that went further than school classmates.

“You’ve talked about how he treated his friends, but how did he treat those he didn’t know, or even those he didn’t like?”

Minerva leaned forward and folded her fingers. “The thing with Sirius is you have to see the dichotomy to him.”

Draco was no stranger to dichotomy. That was the first thing a magical painter had to be aware of. One cannot see the surface and assume there is nothing underneath. Just because Sirius was nice to his friends, didn’t mean he was _always_ nice.

“Everyone has that,” he pointed out, not wanting to be told a simplified version. If he was to capture Sirius, then he wanted to _fully_ capture him.

“Sirius could bully and he in fact did.”

That wasn’t news, but he wrote it down anyway.

“I can’t tell you what was in his head, or why he did what he did. But as kind as he was to some, he was vicious to others.”

“Vicious is an accurate depiction,” Severus added dryly, and Draco knew he’d have to talk to his godfather soon.

“Severus,” Minerva sighed, a hand to the bridge of her nose.

“It’s alright,” Draco said, eyes on Severus. “I’ll get your side another day, alright?”

That seemed to appease Severus enough that he left his painting.

“You’ll talk to Severus?”

Draco arched his brows. “If I wanted an inaccurate version of Sirius then I would only listen to positive versions of him. What you saw, and what Severus saw _both_ matter. A person is complicated, vast, difficult and deep when it comes to their psyche. I need all sides of who they were or else it won’t work. The painting would fall flat and be lifeless when I need its opposite.”

When she looked unsure, he continued.

“Don’t mistake me, I take the things people say with a grain of salt. And that goes for _everyone_.”

Minerva didn’t look pleased, but he wanted her to be aware that just because she believed in the things said, did not mean that he had to take it as an absolute. Observations were biased no matter who was the one viewing them.

“Is there anything else you want to say about Sirius?”

“He loved deeply,” she said with a small smile. “And that carried over into his spellwork. When he joined the Order of the Phoenix I worried he was too young, worried they all were, but we needed people, needed bodies to fill the ranks.”

“Was he good at it? Being in the Order?”

“Oh yes. Sirius had quick reflexes, a brilliant mind for strategy and he could concentrate under pressure. Death Eaters liked to do raids during the first war. We didn’t have spies then, no one feeding us information like we did in the second war.” She eyed Severus’ empty portrait with a touch of fondness. “So the raids were devastating.”

“How so?” he wondered curiously. His father never talked about the first war much and Severus always refused.

“Mass destruction and huge casualties. Death Eaters knew that we would protect Muggle lives and they would target them knowing it would draw us out. It wasn’t until Sirius spotted a pattern that it changed the way we went about things. He was brilliant.”

Draco admired that, admired the knowledge it would have taken and the bravery to do what Sirius had done. The more he learned about the man, the more he ached to begin painting.

“Do you think you could give me some memories of him?” When she bit her lip, uncertain and definitely uneasy, he rushed to add on, “I promise to return them.”

“Only if you promise me that you’ll talk to Harry.”

“I will.”

A flick of her wand and two Conjured vials appeared.

“I notice you didn’t specify _when_ you would talk to him,” she mused as two white strings flew into the separate bottles.

“No,” he agreed. “I didn’t.”

When he reached forward to grab them, a hand to his wrist made him pause.

“I hope you know what you are doing.”

“So do I,” he whispered as he secured the bottles in his robes and turned to leave. “So do I.”

\------------------------------------

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Come on,” Draco begged as he tried not to let the frustration he felt seep out. “I _need_ your side of it.”

When nothing further was said, he had to take a deep breath and remember the calming methods his Mind Healer taught him.

“You had no problem giving me your opinion last week, what’s changed?”

Nothing.

“Severus, _please_.”

He had known trying to get Severus to talk would be hard, but he hadn’t thought it would be the challenge that it turned into.

“You got the perfect recollection from Minerva, what do you need _me_ for? Your painting will depict the perfect _innocent_ man that Black was.” It was said with a sneer and a harsh glare, and it made Draco want to scream.

“You know damn well that I can’t capture someone based on only one outlook. I need to talk to those that didn’t like him as well. I need to talk to those who saw a different side than the rest. And that’s _you_.”

Taking opinions from paintings was tricky, and not reliable, but Draco was desperate. With so few people alive that knew Sirius, he had to get creative. The problem with trusting a painting was whether he trusted the artist who painted it. If the skill of the artist was lacking, then so would the painting itself.

Gunnar painted Severus, and Draco trusted his skill with his whole being.

“What do you want to know?” Severus asked, tone clipped and annoyed. “You want me to tell you that Black was reckless, a bully, a self-centred prat? Because he was. Paint _that_.”

Draco placed his quill down before he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Can you expand on that? Give me more?”

Severus lifted his nose in the air and turned his back on Draco. Clearly death hadn’t matured him any.

“You say he was reckless, you want to tell me how?”

“Black used any spell he could with little knowledge on what it did. As long as it hurt the target, he didn’t care what kind of aftereffects there were. He acted first and only ever thought about the consequences if he was _caught_.”

“Any particular instance?”

The silence, back still turned, and lack of help wasn’t what Draco needed. He didn’t understand the deeper layers at work. It had always been obvious that Severus hated Sirius, but it was never known _why_.

“Spells come and go just as fashion and trends do. When I was in Hogwarts it was the era of spells. People tried creating their own, myself included. But when you have a bunch of nitwits doing little research on their craft, the result is harmful spells with no clue on side effects, no testing and no safety net. Black tended to use anyone’s spells as long as they worked.”

“I take it he used them on you?”

A scoff could barely be heard as Severus looked over his shoulder. “He used those and even my own spells against me until I learned to do them silently.”

“What kind of side effects?”

“Numbness to not only the body, but the magical core. Temporary blindness, extra limbs, excess of magic, and _many_ other things. Depending on who was the victim, he didn’t care what happened.”

“And you were the victim a lot?”

“Black’s favourite victim.”

There was no anger, no heat, it was whispered with little emotion and he wasn’t sure where the shift had formed.

“Did you retaliate?”

Severus spun around, sneer on his face and brows arched. “As if I would allow him to make me his casting board. _Of course_ I retaliated. Most of the time it was self-defence, but there were times when I attacked first. If I didn’t they would. But it was never one on one. Oh no, because as mighty and courageous as Gryffindors are, they have to attack two on one—some morality huh? Black and Potter, the world’s largest tools.”

Draco felt a pang of sympathy or perhaps pity for Severus. He had never been in that position. As a kid, he was the tormentor, he was the one casting the spells and mocking others.

“Do you know why Sirius didn’t like you?”

“I’ve asked myself that a million times over the years,” Severus whispered, eyes on the wall behind Draco. “I used to think it was because Potter didn’t like me. Maybe Black just went along for the ride.”

“Why didn’t Potter like you?”

“Because Lily did. I was her best friend, and he didn’t like that, didn’t like me.”

“And you think Sirius never formed his own opinion?”

Severus shook his head as he raised an uncertain hand. “I used to think that, but as we got older, it was clear that his problem with me was a mixture. Oh, I’m sure he was spineless enough to do whatever Potter wanted, but he didn’t like my family.”

“Your family?” Draco tried to think of the Prince line, but they had never been political and after the scandal when Eileen Prince married a Muggle they were shunned in most pureblood societies.

“I come from Dark Magic, and I practiced Dark Magic, not that Black _knew_ that—at least in the beginning.”

Oh. It began to make sense. Draco scribbled in his notebook as he tried to piece together the loose threads inside his mind.

“Black hated Dark Magic more than he hated me. He denounced his brother the moment Regulus was placed in Slytherin.”

“He would have been, what 12?”

Severus nodded, hair falling into his face. “Black was desperate to prove that he wasn’t like his family, that he wasn’t the Dark Wizard that they were. I met him on the train and even then he didn’t want to be in Slytherin. When I said that I did, I knew he’d never like me.”

“Slytherin and Dark Wizards are not synonyms,” Draco said as his nose scrunched up.

“ _I_ know that,” Severus said with a bitter smile. “And _you_ know that, but Black was too blinded by his own hatred to see it.”

“When I first started, I knew basic Dark Magic, it wasn’t until I got older that I _really_ delved into it. But Black didn’t know that. He lumped me in with everything he hated and used that as an excuse to bully me for 7 years.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to respond to the emotion in Severus’ voice.

“I used to envy them in ways.” It was said so quietly that Draco had to lean forward to catch it all. “They were close, had a friendship that I wanted after Lily and I parted ways. They were well-liked and had a presence that affected others. But I was never granted that, I only got the worst parts of who they were. Lucky me.”

“Was there ever a time when you talked, actually talked to each other?”

“No,” Severus shook his head. “He tried to after he nearly killed me.”

_“Nearly killed you?”_

Draco’s quill was as ready as his mind was. He tried to recall any instances reported to the Ministry, or fights that his father might have mentioned, but nothing came to mind.

“I was 11 the first time I knew something was off with Lupin.” The start of the conversation threw Draco, but he wrote it down anyway. “He was tired often, had odd scratches and was absent once a month with strange excuses.”

Ah, the werewolf aspect. He had never stopped to consider what being a werewolf in Hogwarts would have been like.

“I was 12 when I tried to research it, I was sure he was up to something.”

Draco had to quash the smile that threatened to come out. Severus had been obsessed and it was amusing.

“I was 13 when I noticed the other three started behaving strangely when Lupin would disappear. But that wasn’t concrete, they were always odd. Gryffindors. It wasn’t until I was 14 that I knew they were _really_ up to something. They began to study more in the library, but their grades never improved. They were all morons, but the added hours in the library _should_ have helped.”

The scratch of the quill was the only sound in the room as Severus paused, and he wondered if it was difficult to talk about. What had Sirius done?

“I was 15 when I got closer to figuring out Lupin’s disappearances. Only an idiot wouldn’t notice it was always around the full moon. But with the laws surrounding werewolves, it didn’t make sense for Lupin to be one. That would have meant Dumbledore broke the law by admitting him entry. So I tried to find another solution.”

“Did you?”

“No. I was 15 when Black told me on the night of a full moon where I could find Lupin.”

An uneasy feeling took root as Draco sat up straighter. Sirius _wouldn’t_ , would he?

“By the time I got there, I saw the proof, saw the confirmation. Lupin was a werewolf, and not only that, he saw me too. The only thing that saved me that night was Potter.”

 _“Potter?”_ Draco whispered breathlessly.

“Potter got wind of what Black did and ran after me. The bully grew a heart.”

The bitter tinge was palpable, and Draco couldn’t imagine what that would have felt like. They hadn’t exactly been enemies, but to have been saved by someone who tormented you would not have been pleasant.

“What happened to Sirius?”

“A detention and a loss of house points.”

“That’s it?” Draco asked, disappointment evident. One would think expulsion would have happened, or at least discussed.

“Dumbledore believed in second chances, no matter how heavy the price.”

“You know that from personal experience?”

“Draco.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly as he grimaced. It was so easy to fall into asking questions that it sometimes went further.

“You said he tried to talk to you after?”

Severus refused to look at Draco, and he wondered why. Had it resulted in another fight?

“At the time I assumed he was forced to apologise, another one of Dumbledore’s quirks. He came alone, and that always stood out to me, because Black never went anywhere without one of his friends. Especially if it was to bully me.”

“What did he say?” The impatience for more caused a lack of manners, but he didn’t care, not even when Severus glared at him.

“He tried to apologise, I think, I didn’t let him get a word in. I was so _angry._ I was his target for so long, so many years, and he hated me _that_ much. He hated me enough to send me to a werewolf. I didn’t care what kind of lack of thought went into it. Black _had_ to have known what would happen, he _had_ to have known what kind of danger he put me in. No apology could make up for that, and I told him so. I told him if he ever did something similar to me again, I’d use Dark Magic on him.”

A humourless laugh echoed around the room. “That ended any kind of apology of his.”

“And that was the only time you had an actual conversation with him outside of insults?”

Severus nodded once, silent as he looked at Draco. “I can’t tell you what kind of person he was to others, or what he was like underneath it all, I can only tell you what he was like to me. And it wasn’t good.”

“Thank you,” Draco whispered as he put away his things and stood up. “I know that you didn’t want to talk to me about Sirius.”

“No, I didn’t,” Severus agreed. “But you are important to me.”

“I miss you,” he whispered, eyes on the floor. “I miss our potion lessons and the stories you’d tell me about my father.”

“Draco.”

“I miss the feeling of a parental figure, someone I could count on, someone who was there for me.”

“I’m still here.”

“I know.” Draco closed his eyes to ward off the sting. “But it’s not the same.”

“I never had any kids,” Severus said slowly, and Draco’s heart skipped a beat. “But if I did, I would have been honoured to have one half as good as you.”

The sting got worse and Draco had to wipe his eyes. As he walked out of the room, he felt more knowledgeable in one aspect of Sirius’ personality, but also felt worlds lonelier.

Perhaps that was his lot in life: to be alone.

\--

“So,” Draco began hesitantly as he tapped his quill against his notebook. Flecks of ink hit the floor, but he was too distracted to care.

“You dated Sirius, didn’t you?”

“Briefly.” It was said with a nostalgic sigh, and he had to fight off a snort. He had gotten a list of past exes from several acquaintances and teachers at Hogwarts.

“Macey, is it?”

“Yes sir, Macey Williams at your service.”

Macey certainly was _eccentric_. Style of fashion was a cross between Lockhart and Umbridge.

“How long would you say you dated Sirius?”

“A week.”

Draco blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, but did you say a _week_?”

“And what a marvelous week it was.”

Desperation. That was the only reason Draco didn’t get up and leave.

“Did you know him well?”

Macey stretched out in her chair before she set down a gigantic purse that kept giggling whenever Draco glanced at it.

“I knew _of_ him. I knew before we dated that he was just in it to make someone jealous.”

“Oh?” _Finally_ , something he could work with. “Who was he trying to make jealous?”

“I have no idea.”

The urge to bang his head on something hard had never been so prominent.

“I was trying to win the favour of Frank Longbottom myself. We used each other, and it proved to be mutual. Not long after we dated, I got with Frank for a little while before I moved on to greener pastures.”

Lovely.

“And Sirius?”

“I suppose it worked, he was with Shacklebolt for a brief stint.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Draco said as he held up a hand and his quill fell to the floor. “Shacklebolt as in _Kingsley Shacklebolt_? Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt? _That_ Shacklebolt?”

“That would be the one,” Macey said as her purse giggled again. “They made a cute couple.”

Draco hummed, lost in thought. “I’m sure they were,” he said distractedly, mind still trying to piece it all together.

It would seem he’d have to make a stop to see the Minister.

Lovely.

\--

Draco hated the Ministry—despised them even. He looked around the Atrium and had to fight the urge to turn around. The place held nothing but bitter memories and nightmares for him. The last time he had stepped foot inside he was accompanied by two guards, three Dementors and was chained to other Death Eaters.

Good times.

He ignored the way some people stopped at the sight of him. Most people tended to ignore him, and he liked that—preferred it even. But other times, other times people still regarded him as the boy he had once been. Time doesn’t dim memories, not always, and certainly not when it came to the Malfoy name.

“Wand please.”

Draco reluctantly handed the Welcome Witch his wand and in return was given a visitor’s badge.

“Badge will expire in an hour, if you need more time, any Ministry employee can renew it. Enjoy your stay.”

Yeah, fat chance of that.

Fortunately, the lift up to the Minister’s floor was empty save for a few paper memos buzzing around. He watched them knock into each other and wondered if that had some kind of correlation to his own life. Every piece he finished never felt like enough, never felt like he had achieved what he wanted, let alone if he _knew_ what he wanted. He felt as if he was just hitting obstacles but continuing on anyway, just like the memos.

As the lift opened and the memos zoomed out, Draco followed at a slower pace. Every few feet he could make out security for the Minister, and he wondered if they were Aurors. Did the Minister equate enough power to need top level bodyguards such as an Auror? He didn’t like Aurors, never did, not after everything.

Two guards at the end of the hall, near the door Draco was to enter held up a hand.

“Badge please.”

Draco handed it over wordlessly and watched as their pleasant indifference morphed into disdain.

“ _Malfoy_ , is it?”

“The Minister is busy.”

“I have an appointment.”

His badge was shoved into his hands far more forcefully than necessary.

“We said, he’s busy.”

Before Draco could decide if it was worth it to start an argument or just come back another time, the door opened, and the guards turned around with their hands on their hearts.

“Sir.”

“Find your replacements.”

He watched the guards share a look before one of them spoke up hesitantly.

“Sir?”

“I don’t have time for those who hassle my appointments. Go home early, without pay and come back tomorrow.”

Draco would like to think that he was a good person, one who didn’t take pleasure in the humiliation of others, but he had never been a good person and he didn’t think he’d start anytime soon.

“Come in, Draco.”

The use of his first name shouldn’t have been intimidating, but it was. He had only ever communicated with Shacklebolt a few times: once before his trial and then after at the only Ministry Gala he attended.

A hand gestured for Draco to take a seat and he wasn’t going to argue with the Minister.

“When you made the appointment with my secretary, you didn’t give many details. How can I help you today?”

Despite his nerves, he appreciated the way Shacklebolt held himself, appreciated the way he spoke to Draco as if he mattered just as much as the next person.

“I’m a painter,” he paused, unsure how to quite ask about a past flame considering his status.

“I’m aware.”

Draco flushed as he looked down at his hands. “I have been informed that you could provide information on the piece I am working on.”

“ _Oh._ " Shacklebolt’s face cleared and a small smile stretched his lips. “I’ll help in anyway I can.”

“Did you happen to date Sirius Black?”

In for a Knut and out for a Galleon.

Shacklebolt regarded Draco with parted lips and wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, but _what_?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck as he tried not to fidget. Shacklebolt was intimidating, even with a gaping expression.

“My next piece is Sirius, and I was informed that the two of you were in a relationship at one point.”

Shacklebolt covered his face with his hands as his shoulders shook.

“Merlin, teenage horrors coming back to haunt me.”

The sound of rustling could be heard as Draco pulled out his notebook.

“Horrors, you say?”

“What—” Shacklebolt’s brows furrowed when he noticed the quill in Draco’s hand. “No, don’t write that down.”

“I’m not a reporter, Minister Shacklebolt. This doesn’t get told to anyone, it’s only for my research.”

Shacklebolt eyed the notebook with narrowed eyes but jerked his head anyway.

“Call me Kingsley.”

First name basis sounded far more intimidating than before, but who was he to deny him?

“Has Harry hired you for the piece?”

What was with everyone always relating it back to Potter? It drove him up the wall.

“No, this is a personal piece.”

Kingsley grimaced.

“Are you aware of how close they were?”

“Sirius was his godfather, I imagine that they would’ve been close.”

“Well, yes,” Kingsley said with a small frown. “But I do think Harry would like to be informed—”

“I will talk to him,” Draco reassured. “He is on my list, no worries.”

Kingsley looked as if he wanted to argue, but he didn’t, only shook his head.

“May I ask where you heard Sirius and I dated?”

“Macey Williams.”

Kingsley groaned. “It would be her.”

“Was she lying?” Had he wasted his time? It wouldn’t have been the first time someone lied to him to cover up past grievances.

“Not really.”

 _Not really._ Draco eyed Kingsley over the top of the notebook with narrowed eyes.

“I’m going to need more than that.”

Kingsley slumped in his chair, head tilted back towards the ceiling. “We were 16 and it lasted a month, if that.”

“That sounds like a relationship to me.”

“It wasn’t one to us, not back then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sirius was, well, wild.” Kingsley smiled softly. “I wanted wild, I wanted to not have to face the seriousness of my parents’ wishes.”

 _That_ Draco could relate to.

“They always wanted _more_. Better grades, better results, harder work, just more from me. And then there was Sirius.”

“And he was what? The opposite?”

“Yes,” Kingsley laughed, hands behind his head. “Sirius rarely took himself seriously, despite the namesake. I didn’t have to study around him, didn’t have to do more, didn’t have to think, really.”

“I can see the appeal,” Draco whispered, and he did. At 16 he would have given anything for a distraction from his own actions.

“What ended the relationship?”

“That’s the thing,” Kingsley mumbled as he sat up. “We never really classified anything as a relationship. We were self-aware enough to know that it wasn’t long term. We were just existing _near_ each other instead of _with_ each other.”

“There had to have been an end, something that brought it all to a close.”

“We weren’t what we wanted.”

The vague answers weren’t appreciated, and he wished people didn’t feel the need to hide things. Sirius was dead, what good would limited answers do anyone?

“What does that mean?”

Kingsley worried his lip as he glanced at Draco briefly.

“I wasn’t what he wanted, I don’t even know if _he_ knew what he wanted.”

“And you?” Draco asked. “Did you know what you wanted?”

A sad smile was his response. “Does anyone know what they want at that age?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. Draco certainly hadn’t. The only thing he had wanted was to survive, anything past that was a bonus.

“There’s not much to tell,” Kingsley said as he cleared his throat. “It was over as quickly as it started.”

“Was that typical for Sirius?”

“He liked to date, that was just who he was.”

A roundabout way of saying yes. Lovely. He bitterly dotted his next stroke on the parchment harder than normal.

“Was there ever anyone serious? Ever someone who knew him intimately?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone. Remus would have known him the best.”

“Yeah,” Draco said slowly and a touch sarcastically. “They were friends.” Of course Remus would have known him the best. 

“Yes, but—”

“But he’s well, dead,” Draco finished slowly as Kingsley frowned. “There aren’t any paintings of him either. No one to talk to when it comes to Lupin.”

“Andromeda knew Remus.”

Yes, and he _could_ talk to his aunt, but he was rather hoping to avoid that. If he went to her she’d wrangle a week’s worth of babysitting out of him, and as much as he loved Teddy, he didn’t have the time.

But… he didn’t have a whole lot to go on. Draco made a note to talk to her as a last resort.

“What can you tell me about Sirius outside of your relationship?” He ignored the mutterings of ‘it wasn’t really a relationship’.

“You said he was wild, but can you elaborate?”

Kingsley chuckled, eyes brighter than they were before.

“Sirius was just so full of life. Always ready for any outcome, good or bad. If things were good then he approached life with such acceptance and such ease that I envied him. Where others might have proceeded with caution, Sirius just took it in stride. He could be cynical and sarcastic, but he did it in a way that was subtle, in a way that was still shrouded in a happiness that was just unique to himself.”

“Even when things got bad and we all joined the Order, he still approached things with an attitude that was hard to muster due to the times. Raids, deaths and a despair surrounded the atmosphere, and yet Sirius was the morale in many ways. People gravitated towards him, whether it was just to talk or to look for comfort.”

Draco was captivated. He had never known someone like that, never seen anyone with such a personality. He frowned at his notebook and he wished for the millionth time that he could have known his cousin, even briefly.

“But I think his best trait and the thing to take away from Sirius is that he _cared_ ,” Kingsley stressed, eyes serious and tone firm. “He cared about not only those that were close to him, but those he hardly knew and even strangers. Sirius was the kind of person that strived to do better, be better and prove himself.”

“Prove himself how?”

“Anything, really,” Kingsley shrugged. “From taking extra shifts, or doing night patrols on his days off, volunteering for Muggle lookouts and even pulling double shifts.”

“Why did he try so hard?” That seemed extreme to Draco. Had Sirius just been a hard worker?

A dark look fluttered across Kingsley’s face as his arms folded across his chest.

“People are quick to judge, you witnessed that on your way in.”

Draco’s brows merged. “What had Sirius done that people would judge him for?”

“Nothing, that’s the point. They judged where he came from and not on his own merits.”

Ah.

“His family?”

“The Blacks weren’t exactly known for being pleasant.”

Draco snorted. That was an understatement.

“There had been rumours of his brother having joined Voldemort’s ranks and that made it harder for people to take him seriously. Most considered Sirius another byproduct of his upbringing.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Kingsley agreed sadly. “It’s not.”

“Did he ever get people to believe in him?”

“ _Absolutely_. It was hard to find someone who didn’t eventually believe in him. That was just a part of his charm, just a part of who he was.” 

“He sounds nice,” Draco mumbled to himself as he finished writing his last few points.

“He was, and I wish you could have gotten to know him.”

“Thank you,” he whispered as he stood up. “Me too.”

As he gripped Kingsley’s hand in gratitude and thanked him for his time, he couldn’t help but feel regret. The regret of never knowing his cousin, the regret of his own choices that so differed from Sirius’ and the regret of not having done the painting sooner.

He just hoped that he wouldn’t regret anything else going forward.

\------------------------------------


	3. Discoveries

The chill of the morning was nothing compared to the unnatural chill of the air as Draco stood in front of the one place he swore he’d never go back to. He hadn’t gone when his father was imprisoned, hadn’t gone when his father was found dead, and hadn’t gone when his mother wanted closure.

“You can enter,” a gruff voice near the entrance yelled, but Draco didn’t want to be rushed, not when it was important, not when the urge to flee was stronger than the urge to stay.

“It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”

The input wasn’t appreciated, and Draco hated the man already. Yeah, he had seen Azkaban before, lived in it too, for a brief time, but that didn’t mean he wanted to _visit_ it.

“May I speak to your supervisor?” Draco asked as he took a step closer to the entrance, not quite stepping in, but not leaving either.

 _“Why?”_ The guard mocked, bushy moustache prominent as he sneered. “Going to report me? I’m only teasing.”

“No you weren’t,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “But no, it has nothing to do with you. I’m here to talk to him regardless of your actions.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll go through the proper channels, and since I already spoke to the Minister yesterday, it’ll be easy to go back.”

Unease flickered on the man’s face, and Draco knew he was debating whether to believe him or not.

“His office is on the bottom floor, first left.”

“Thank you,” Draco said with a smile that he hoped came off as fake as it was. “Your hospitality is just as sweet as I remember.” Fucking prick.

Courage had never been his strong suit, never been a part of who he was. That much had been made clear the moment he caved to the Dark Lord and gave up everything he thought he had stood for. But as he stared at the entrance to Azkaban, he mustered up every ounce of pitiful courage he possessed and walked in.

Memories threatened to overwhelm him as he took in the familiar decor. The walls were still gaudy, minimal light, no decorations, guards keeping Dementors at bay and the never-ending screams of the prisoners echoed around the hallway.

Everything was status quo.

Draco ignored the nosy guards that left their stations as he knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

The interior wasn’t what he expected of the warden of Azkaban. Photos littered the walls, so much so that it was hard to tell the original colour of the wall. He looked closer, but each photo was someone new and he couldn’t figure out who they might be. Knickknacks were placed sporadically, and flyers zoomed around the room, never pausing and a few shouted things but it was hard to hear over the plants in the corner that sang a melody Draco had never heard.

He supposed if he had been in the same job for 50 years that it would have housed bits of his own personality too. But what the warden’s personality was, he wasn’t sure.

“Mister Malfoy.”

There was a pleasant tinge to his tone, and it threw Draco. Not many who knew him would regard him so warmly.

“Brock Kennedy?”

“That would be me,” Kennedy said as he set parchments aside and gave Draco his full undivided attention. “Sit down please.”

Kindness in Azkaban seemed like an oxymoron and Draco wasn’t sure what to do with it. He tried to smile gratefully but he was sure it came off as a grimace.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m actually here about a former inmate, and I was wondering if you could provide any information on them?”

Kennedy reached over to a magically enlarged file cabinet and looked at Draco pointedly as he said, “Sure, what’s the name?”

“Sirius Black.”

The cabinet closed with a loud screech and Draco flinched at the noise.

“May I ask why?” Kennedy’s face had lost some of the previous warmth that had been there.

“I’m an artist, and I specialise in restoration of deceased interpretations—”

“I know.”

Draco frowned briefly before he ignored the interruption. “—and Sirius is the next piece I’m working on.”

Kennedy moved away from the file cabinet and he hoped that wasn’t a sign of sorts, hoped that he wasn’t going to be shown the door.

“Do you know what I do?”

The question confused Draco and his head tilted back in surprise. “You run the prison?”

“Well yes,” Kennedy said slowly with a small quirk of his lips. “But I also personally know every single story that walks through my doors.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people assume that the Dementors are what keep prisoners locked down, but they are wrong.”

That, Draco knew from his own experiences when he spent six months in Azkaban while he waited for his own trial.

“Dementors work alongside us, they do it reluctantly, unwillingly and grudgingly, but they do it. Because they know that their only ticket to food is through us.”

The lesson on Dementors had not been what he wanted, but Draco was willing to see where it went despite the unease of it all. He didn’t _want_ to know more about Dementors, didn’t want to be reminded of their lingering presence.

“They also grow restless quickly. You might not have witnessed that during your stay here, but that would be due to the recent Safety Inclusion Act of 1997.”

“That’s the Act that demanded there be more human guards than Dementors, right?”

“Among other things,” Kennedy said as he placed his hand underneath his chin. “The Act was put in place to ensure the safety of the prisoners. Azkaban is not a place for criminals to die, it is not a place for them to wither away or to become a shell of who they once were. That is inhumane and not what Azkaban was created for.”

 _Not a place for criminals to die._ Kennedy could tell that to his father. Draco’s fingers clenched but he tried to not let it show, tried to make himself relax as much as possible.

“Unfortunately, those who were imprisoned _before_ the Act was implemented faced harsher circumstances than inmates nowadays.”

“Sirius was one of those inmates,” Draco said with a hum as he made a new paragraph in his notebook.

“Back then it wasn’t uncommon for prisoners to lose their minds while here. So many went mad, some had to be carted off to St Mungos and _many_ of them died.”

“What did they die of?”

“You can’t live with only the darkest parts of your mind forever,” Kennedy whispered. “The mind can only take so much torment before it fails, just as any other part of the body. Some will scoff at that, say that the mind isn’t a limb and shouldn’t be treated with the same care, but they are _wrong_.”

 _The darkest part of the mind._ It had been nearly 10 years since he had been in Azkaban, but he would never forget what it felt like, never forget the unnatural void where he was unable to retain any positive emotions despite the memories that lingered. The way his mind tried and _tried_ to make sense of the absence, tried to rationalise but couldn’t. The repeated attempts had always left him exhausted but there had been no way of stopping it, no way to make it end because with each new cycle of Dementors came a new wave of helplessness.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what Sirius would have gone through because Draco had _lived_ it, even if it was only for a brief time.

“Black was an inmate for 12 years, that’s not a short stint, that’s not something to scoff at. 12 years of double the Dementor guards than there are now, 12 years of limited breaks and 12 years of a mental torment that would cripple a lot of people.”

The quill nearly slipped from his grasp as Draco sat up straighter. _Double_ the Dementor guards? He had felt like cracking with the ones that were there. How had Sirius survived?

“And that was legal?”

“No one cared about the lives of criminals.” It was the sad truth, and Draco couldn’t deny that. “There were movements, but it wasn’t until things became more progressive that changes were implemented.”

“How affected _was_ Sirius? Was he the worst case you had seen?”

Kennedy laughed, the sound not quite humourless but not exactly joyful.

“That’s the thing, Black wasn’t as affected as he should have been. Even after 12 years he was _nothing_ compared to those that had been in under a year.”

“Did the Dementors avoid him?” Draco had never known a Dementor to be picky when it came to a target. As long as there was a soul inside they didn’t care who it was.

“No, they did their rounds, but it baffled us then and to be honest, it still baffles me now. He was affected, don’t get me wrong, no way someone spends day in and day out in this place and _not_ be affected. But it wasn’t what it should have been, wasn’t what it was designed to be.”

Hmm. Draco wasn’t sure what to do with the information. It honestly raised more questions than it answered, and he didn’t know how to find them.

“Do you know why that might be?”

Kennedy’s fingers curled upwards to grip his chin and he frowned slightly. “I have guesses, but nothing past that, nothing concrete enough to voice.”

Well that was utterly disappointing.

“I think it goes to show his character and what kind of person he was. Someone who was able to not only function around Dementors but function _well_ , would have to be a remarkable person.”

 _Remarkable._ Had Sirius been remarkable? His research into what made Sirius who he was showed a wide range of characteristics. He wondered if Sirius would have agreed with the sentiment. 

“Did you ever talk to him?” Draco wondered. “Ever see him during guard trade-outs?”

Kennedy looked down at his hands and avoided all eye contact.

“The only times he ever spoke during his time here was right after Dementors swept the halls, right when the mind was the most unhinged.”

The pause was borderline dramatic, and impatience caused his hand to gesture for more.

“He used to repeat the mantra that he was innocent, but most inmates did, that was nothing special.”

But Draco knew that Sirius _was_ innocent, the wizarding world did _now_.

“And,” Kennedy continued softly. “He used to mention Harry Potter a lot too. He’d cry out his name and mention the need to see him, the need to save him.”

 _Oh._ Draco’s heart clenched. He remembered the papers, remembered what history had said about Sirius. The papers reported that Sirius had been an unmarked Death Eater who wanted to finish off the Potter line by going after the lone survivor before he was stopped by Pettigrew. While the wizarding world shunned him, threw him in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit, Sirius had still thought about Potter, still cared for his godson.

Fuck. Draco blinked rapidly, unable to look at Kennedy as his mind raced.

He’d have to talk to Potter. No way around it. Clearly, the catalyst to Sirius’ decisions centred around Potter.

“Azkaban was meant for criminals, not innocent people. Black didn’t belong here,” Kennedy whispered, and Draco couldn’t agree more. “Take a look at the walls.”

Draco glanced at the photos, still unsure what the point was. It wasn’t until he spotted his own photo that he stood up to inspect it. A finger traced the photo, and it was hard to see himself as he was back then. An 18-year-old who was too skinny to maintain any kind of fashion, bags under the eyes that showed the little sleep he got and the brand of his criminal status in the form of the magic dampener on his wrist.

It was his booking photo.

“Why is this up here?”

“This wall is full of those who got out of here and made something of themselves. It’s full of people who made mistakes and _learned_ from them. People who deserve second chances and those who thrive outside of here. There is life after wrong turns and I like to surround myself with that, surround myself with the knowledge that Azkaban isn’t the end of the road for most people.”

Draco stared at his photo and wondered what he would have felt back then to know that he’d be on a wall of those who made something of themselves. When he was 18 and shivering behind bars, nothing felt achievable, nothing felt real. _Especially_ a future.

“People always ask me why I stay here, why I surround myself with gloom when there are better places, but they miss the whole picture. They see all inmates as the conclusion and forget that this isn’t the end of the road for most prisoners, this isn’t where the story ends. There is life after Azkaban and everyone deserves to see that, even those who make mistakes, even those that the rest of society has given up on. These photos remind me of a world of second chances, a world of equal opportunities and a world of forgiveness.”

Brock Kennedy was an interesting man, and the world needed more people like him. Draco looked at the other photos on the wall, too choked up to say anything. He wished he knew their story, wished he could see what they did with their second chances. Were they happy? Did they get their happy ending? What were their lives like and did they face the same judgement at the hands of the public as he did?

“My biggest regret was never getting a photo of Black on the wall,” Kennedy whispered. “I never got to see what he did with his life, never got to see what he’d do with another chance.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a place up here,” Draco said just as quietly. “He was innocent, and never needed the second chance.”

Draco pulled his photo off the wall and turned to Kennedy with pinched brows. “You can put him there; his spot is more important than mine.”

There was a softness to Kennedy’s eyes and he wasn’t sure he deserved that, he was only doing what he felt was right.

The sound of the cabinet opening still screeched, and it still made him jump, but Draco welcomed it. When Kennedy placed Sirius’ booking photo on the wall, Draco traced the photo with his finger as he had done with his own.

Sirius didn’t look like his mother’s side of the family, and there wasn’t much of a resemblance to Regulus either. The photo wasn’t flattering, Sirius was screaming, eyes angry but desperate and Draco’s heart broke. He didn’t know what it was like to be innocent and in Azkaban, he only knew what it was like to be guilty.

“May I keep this?” Draco asked as he held up his photo. “I’d like a reminder of who I once was.

“Thank you,” he whispered when Kennedy nodded. “For everything.”

As reluctant as he had been to enter Azkaban, Draco finally felt like he had received closure. That part of his life was over with and sometimes it was okay to remember it. He clutched the photo tightly in his hands as he walked down the hall and sneered at the guard by the door. He would never forget where he had come from, but he would take a piece of Kennedy’s wisdom with him. Everyone deserves a second chance.

And that included him.

\--

“Is this an interview for the Daily Prophet?”

“No,” Draco said, a touch of annoyance shining through. He detested being compared to the likes of a reporter.

“I’m here to ask you some questions about a relative of yours.”

“All my relatives are dead, you should know that as a reporter.”

Draco’s right eye twitched as he stared at a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. _Desperation_ , he had to remind himself. That was the only reason he was there.

“I want to talk to you about Sirius Black.”

“Ah, my brother. He was a kind soul—”

“No,” Draco said quickly as he scrolled through his notebook to pull out a small version of the Black family tree. “Not your brother.”

“Ah, my son. Well, he was less kind but equally—”

“No, not him either.”

Phineas deflated, and he folded his arms a touch petulantly.

“I don’t want to talk about my great-great grandson. Let’s talk about me instead.”

 _Desperation_ , his mind whispered.

“I need to talk about Sirius because I’m going to paint him.”

“Sounds like a waste of time to me,” Phineas said with a sneer. “Might as well paint me, I’m right here.”

“There’s already 4 paintings of you in the world.”

“One more can’t hurt.”

If Phineas hadn’t already been dead, Draco might have killed him. Azkaban be damned.

“Perhaps another time, if you give me the information that I seek.” He had no intention of doing that, but it appeased Phineas and that was all that mattered. 

“Sirius was worthless in the eyes of the Black family.”

 _Worthless._ “That seems a bit _harsh_. Surely he wasn’t worthless.”

“Do you want my story or not?”

Draco lifted his hands up in surrender. “Right, sorry.” He’d clearly have to take what Phineas said with a grain of salt.

“The responsibility of an heir of the Noble House of Black is to uphold our standards to the fullest. One must act with the dignity that is expected, one must present themselves as our motto stands: _Toujours Pur_.”

Always pure.

“And Sirius didn’t do that?”

“Hah!” Phineas snorted so harshly that it sent him into a coughing spiral. “When one can only observe, you notice a lot of things. And Sirius never fit into our values, not even as a child. He detested what we stood for and made a mockery of it all. Just look at what he ended up with!”

Draco frowned as he looked down at the little he actually wrote.

“What do you mean? His friends?”

“Sure, if—”

“Because James Potter was a pureblood.”

“James Potter was a blood traitor and _exactly_ the kind of person that would taint the Black name, and don’t get me started on the werewolf either.”

Werewolf. Draco would never understand why having creature blood would automatically diminish someone’s worth. Lupin may have been a werewolf, but that didn’t change who he was or negate his accomplishments.

“If you want to talk about someone who _really_ deserves a painting, it should be Regulus, Sirius’ brother. He was what our family strives to be. Regulus was a wonderful boy who knew what he wanted in life.”

“I’m sure he was,” Draco said, the urge to throttle Phineas just as strong as it had been before. “But I’m not doing a piece on him.”

“You reporters are all alike. Only care for one-sided opinions and never wanting the _truth_.”

The irony of it all amused Draco just as much as it made him want to scream. Professional, he was a professional, and to scream at a painting would only hurt his reputation. But Merlin, did he want to.

“Besides his friends,” Draco continued with a pointed glare that he hoped got his ire across. “Was there anyone you ever noticed or heard that was close to him?”

“The Potter boy, the son not the father.”

Again, with Potter.

“You saw them?”

Phineas jerked his head as he looked away from Draco, eyes on something inside the painting.

“When Sirius was forced to stay inside Grimmauld, he didn’t have much to entertain him, hardly any visitors outside of their little _rebellion_. He would write letters to Potter, ones that he never sent. He’d scratch out sections, write things then crumple them. A few times I heard him talk to Potter, and it changed his demeanour.”

Letters. Draco quickly wrote that down, that would help him immensely. He wondered if Potter had them or perhaps they were still somewhere inside Grimmauld.

“Changed his demeanour? How so?”

“I always enjoyed the atmosphere and lingering magic of the place, but Sirius did not. I imagine most Light Wizards wouldn’t, the warring signatures would grate on the core. He was gloomy nearly always, except for the times Potter was around.”

“He was happy then?”

“Oh, yes,” Phineas nodded, but he didn’t seem pleased with the idea. “They had a bond that disgusted me.”

Draco snorted, he couldn’t help it. The glare he got in return was worth it. So worth it.

“Why?”

“Potter is a half-blood, is he not? Of all the people to make as Sirius’ heir, he chose wrong.”

 _Toujours Pur_ to the extreme.

“What about Potter?” Draco wondered curiously. “You said they were close, but did you notice anything about what he might have felt?”

Phineas rolled his eyes far too slowly not to be dramatic.

“Potter was enamored with Sirius. I expect he saw him less as a godfather and more as a parental figure. I was there after Sirius died, there when Potter lost his mind on Dumbledore.”

Feeling less like the professional that he was, Draco leaned forward, the sudden need for gossip taking over.

“He did _what?_ ”

Phineas’ eyes lit up and he had to wonder if Phineas liked gossip too. Life as a painting would get dreary without it.

“I’ve seen plenty of angry people in my life, both while alive and as a painting. Potter wasn’t just angry, he was explosive.”

“At Dumbledore?”

“Among other things,” Phineas said with a half shrug. “He wasn’t quite grieving, what with Sirius’ death having _just_ happened, but he was going through the motions. Anger is not uncommon after the death of a loved one.”

 _That,_ Draco knew from personal experience.

“He blamed Dumbledore and to be frank, I would have as well, for some of it. Potter was emotional that night, and rightly so. He demolished several of Dumbledore’s items.”

“Sirius meant that much to him?”

“I was of the belief that Potter had no one,” Phineas murmured. “When one loses the only thing they have, it leaves a lasting impression. They were close, of that I am sure.”

Draco tapped his quill against the notebook as his mind wandered. There really was no denying it, he’d have to talk to Potter to get the most out of his research. No one alive or dead appeared to know Sirius as well as Potter did.

“As for his character,” Draco continued on with his next set of questions. “Do you have anything _unbiased_ you could give me on what Sirius was like? His personality? How he behaved?”

“I’ve already told you most of his faults.”

“Right,” Draco said slowly as he put away his quill. Clearly nothing further would be gained from the meeting whatsoever. “How about some of his merits then?”

The silence that followed was more telling than the entire conversation. Desperation meant nothing if it led to a brick wall.

As Draco stood up to leave, a shout stilled him, but he didn’t turn around.

“Sirius had convictions and he stuck to them,” Phineas said, tone far more reserved than before. “As a child he would cry when Walburga used Dark Magic, as a teenager he would rebel and then as an adult he fought back. As much as I don’t like his choices, Sirius had always known who he was.”

“Yeah, and who was Sirius Black?” Draco asked softly, wanting to know what Phineas would say, needing to know if his opinion mattered.

“A Light Wizard who wanted to make a difference in the world.”

“And did he?”

“You tell me.”

Draco would, as soon as he figured out the answer for himself.

\---------------------------------

Draco wiped the specks of paint from his fingers on his trousers as he eyed the base of his painting. It wasn’t quite right, but that was the point, that was what his mother wanted.

The sound of the chime that was _supposed_ to sing at noon but actually just shouted insults could be heard, and it was a relief. He was hungry.

“Quit working, morons,” The clock shouted over and over.

“That was almost a melody,” Blaise said with a snicker as Draco walked down the stairs into the office. “I think next week it might actually give us a tune.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Draco countered as he pulled on a blue silk cloak and brushed the strands of hair that fell into his eyes. He’d have to get a haircut soon. “Last week it screamed when I stayed til midnight.”

“Good.” Blaise stuck out his tongue. “About time someone tells you off for overworking.”

Draco rolled his eyes. As much as he loved Blaise, he really didn’t need anyone nagging him.

“Is Ron off today?”

“He was supposed to be, but he’s taking over for Simmons since they swapped days for the Fred unveiling.”

“Damn,” he swore as he checked the time, he had forgotten about that. “I’m going to have to rush if I want to make it before his lunch is over.”

“Why do you want Ron? I’m the wiser one between us.”

“Your boyfriend is a Healer, while you wasted your inheritance in my art business. That doesn’t scream wise to me.”

Blaise poked Draco in the cheek hard, a zap of magic making it sting.

“It was the best decision I ever made. Besides, it’s technically _our_ business.”

“I just do all the work,” he pointed out dryly.

“Hey,” Blaise cried, hands on his hip. “I do all the finances, handle the paperwork and everything else behind the scenes. That’s no easy thing, I’ll have you know.”

“I know,” Draco whispered as he placed a hand on Blaise’s. “And I love you for that.”

Blaise softened, eyes crinkling at the corners and a smile on his lips.

“Now, what do you want Ron for?”

The way the both of them competed in everything they did would always amuse him.

“I have to ask him some things about Potter.”

When Blaise’s eyes lit up, Draco shook his head quickly and held up his hands.

“No, you don’t. It’s for professional reasons.”

 _“Professional,”_ he added when Blaise smirked.

“I’m sure it is.”

“Blaise,” Draco growled, and it was his turn to poke Blaise in the cheek. “You are an infant sometimes, I swear.”

He didn’t wait for a rebuttal before he made his way to the fireplace. It wasn’t until he was about to add in his destination that Blaise spoke.

“He should be in his office, just Floo directly there, you’ll need two extra handfuls of Floo powder to gain access though.”

“Thank you.”

He honestly wouldn’t know what to do without Blaise.

“If you don’t give me the details, I’ll send Pansy after you.”

The threat was familiar and almost nostalgic. As Draco stepped into the fireplace and the warm heat enveloped him, he thought about how far they all had come as friends. They had even added additions to the circle, and he was grateful for that.

When Draco landed, he expected to see Ron looking at him in surprise, he expected to give little shits about his own appearance and he expected no one else to be there. 

What he got however was the opposite.

Instead of Ron looking at him in surprise, there was Ron _and_ Potter. He was hyperaware of his disheveled hair, paint-covered clothes and messy hands. Nothing about his appearance was presentable, _nothing_.

“Draco,” Ron smiled as he took off his Healer’s robes. “I didn’t expect to see you until after work.”

“What’s after work?” Draco asked, distracted from his appearance as he tried to remember if they had anything planned. “It’s not Exploding Snap night.”

“No,” Ron agreed, eyes narrowed in a way that had him shifting from foot to foot. “But Luna is petitioning the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, again.”

Draco groaned pitifully as he covered his face with his hands. The smell of paint had him flushing, he really needed to start cleaning before he left the studio.

“She petitions the Ministry once a year for the Crumpled-Horned Snorkack to be added to the endangered species registry, and they deny it every year. _Every year._ Why do I have to go to the hearing?”

“Moral support.”

Moral support, Draco mouthed as he looked up at Ron.

“You know her, she would be happy with a signed letter of my well wishes.”

It always amazed him how easily Ron could get him to cave with one stern look and a hint of disappointment.

“Fine,” Draco caved, aware of how little credibility he had to his Slytherin pride. “But you _owe_ me.” He was aware of the way Potter glanced between them, eyebrows quirked.

“What’s your asking price?” Ron asked as he sat on top of his desk and looked through a few memos floating around the room.

“I want you to get Blaise off my back about working too much.”

Ron frowned, and the disappointed look returned.

“You _do_ work too much.”

“Says the man who works 15-hour days.”

“I’m saving lives.”

“I’m painting lives.”

They’ve had the same argument countless times, but he would never tire of trying to one up Ron.

“He just cares about you.”

“I know,” Draco said as he picked at a spot of paint on his wrist he only just noticed. “And I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”

“Draco.”

“Please.”

Ron sighed, and it was more disappointment all around, and Draco hated it, hated disappointing anyone, but especially his friends.

“Alright, I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you.”

Potter coughed and they both looked at him.

“Sorry,” he said, hands coming up to grip his robes. “It’s just that I need to talk to Ron about something.”

The gesture Potter made towards the fireplace had Draco frowning.

“So do I,” he said, not in the mood to care that Potter _was_ what he wanted to talk to Ron about.

“I was here first.”

“Are we in school again?” Draco asked with a snort. “What does that matter?”

“No, if we were in school you’d be strutting around with your nose in the air.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. What was Potter’s problem? There was no anger on his face, but he couldn’t figure him out.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Draco said slowly. “I’ll just wait outside.” He supposed he could have just _said_ what he wanted, but not if Potter was going to be combative. 

Before he reached the door, Potter’s voice made him pause.

“Wait, I’m sorry, you can go first.”

Draco turned around, Potter was closer than he should have been, closer than he was before.

He had never been able to understand Potter, never able to get what it was about him that everyone was drawn to. Even himself. Draco stepped forward until he was only a few feet away.

“I came to ask Ron about you.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed briefly as the searched Draco’s face.

“Me? Why? Is it because I never showed up to your game night?”

He wanted to groan as his cheeks flushed and he could _feel_ the heat.

“No,” Draco said as he grit his teeth and glared at the way Potter’s eyes sparkled. “I’m doing a new piece and wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Someone I knew?”

Draco nodded once, as he looked at Potter’s chin, unable to look him in the eyes.

“Care to elaborate?”

He knew Ron was listening, the git wouldn’t be able to stop himself, but Draco didn’t want to say it in front of him. Didn’t want to see the disappointment, not again.

“I can, somewhere else, where I can take notes. The process can be lengthy.”

Potter said nothing at first, just watched Draco, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the intense stare, not when he knew it would turn into something else once he found out.

“Alright, I can give you my Floo address. You can stop by before Luna’s hearing.”

“Thank you.”

Draco said his goodbyes to Ron without looking at him, and he knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed, he’d have to answer to him and he wasn’t looking forward to that. At all.

It was all going according to plan anyway.

At least, he hoped it was.

\--

Draco wasn’t sure what he expected Potter’s place to look like, but as he stepped out of the fireplace and took in the obsessively clean room, spotless counters, minimal items and not an ounce of personal decorations, he knew that what he saw wasn’t it.

If he hadn’t known that it was Potter’s place, he would’ve thought the place was for sale: a blank, monotonous shapeable flat for any tenant’s tastes.

Potter was on the couch, a book in one hand, a quill in the other, a Muggle device of some kind in his lap and an intense gaze on his face.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Draco returned as he took off his cloak and held it limply by his side, unsure if he was supposed to put it away himself. Potter clearly had no sense of manners.

“Please sit, I’ll be just a moment.”

Draco sat across from Potter in a lumpy chair that looked too old to still be of use. It didn’t match the bland scheme of Potter’s residence, nor did it look pleasing to the eye. He watched Potter write on a piece of parchment before glancing at the book and then down at the Muggle contraption in his lap. His multitasking abilities were impressive.

Potter closed the book, set aside the parchment and Muggle technology, placed the quill behind his ear in a look that was reminiscent of Lovegood and then looked at Draco expectantly.

“What can I do for you?”

Nervous. Draco was nervous again, and he hated it. He wasn’t sure what it was about Potter that made him nervous. Was it who Potter was, or perhaps what Potter had meant to Sirius that got to him? He couldn’t help but glance down at his fingers, unable to look at Potter as he next spoke. 

“I have some questions about Sirius Black.”

“No.”

Draco’s head snapped up to stare at Potter incredulously.

“What do you mean, no?”

Potter’s eyes were hard, far more distant than he had ever experienced from him.

“I meant, no,” Potter said slowly, as if Draco were stupid. “I won’t talk about Sirius.”

“My new piece _is_ Sirius and I need the insight that you have on him.”

“Someone has hired you to paint him?”

Draco looked down at his fingers again as the nerves came back full swing. It wasn’t hard to picture the man Potter had been who had looked death in the face and lived. It was intimidating to be on the receiving end of a glare so strong and filled with emotion.

“Not quite,” he hedged. “I’m doing it on my own.”

“No.”

The weeks of little sleep, dead ends, horrible interviews, rude people and annoying paintings couldn’t have been for nothing. It couldn’t have led to Potter’s refusal.

“Why?” Draco asked, his voice as confused as he felt. “You are the only one left to talk to.”

He could tell he made a mistake the moment the words came out. Potter’s demeanour changed. It went from tense to aggressive in a flash.

“You’ve talked to other people?”

“Well, yes,” Draco said, hands intertwined as he tried not to fidget. “I needed to talk to those who knew him. And there were several people, yourself included.”

“Why wasn’t I the first?”

“Why should you have been?”

Potter’s hand slammed on the table and the action caused Draco to jump.

“I knew him the best.” It wasn’t quite a yell, but it was close.

“And I am supposed to know that?” he countered, tone rising to match. “I never met my cousin, never knew him. That’s all I’m trying to do Potter.”

“You don’t need me.”

“But I do,” Draco argued, and he hoped Potter could see the conviction that he felt, hoped that even a small fraction of his emotions would be detected. “You said it yourself, you knew him best. I can’t even begin to start painting him without the knowledge that you have.”

“Then don’t start.”

“Potter, I don’t understand.”

“No,” he agreed, voice hard and unforgiving. “You don’t, and it’s best that you leave it that way.”

“Can you at least tell me why?” Draco asked, not willing to give up easily. “I’ve been waiting _years_ to do this piece.”

Potter’s jaw clenched and so did his hands, but Draco didn’t get it, didn’t understand why it was so tense when it didn’t have to be.

“You said it yourself,” Potter mocked almost cruelly. “You didn’t know him. _I did_. I lived with his absence, his death, the memories and everything that was left behind. I won’t have you dredging it up to fulfill some twisted fantasy.”

“Twisted fantasy?” Draco said in bewilderment. “I just want to get to know him. To understand who he was.”

“What makes you think he’d want to get to know _you_?”

The bitter inflection hurt Draco far more than he thought it would. He had always known people wouldn’t look at him and see the ways he’s changed, but to think that Potter wasn’t even going to _try_ , well that hurt.

“I don’t—”

“You are everything he stood against. Everything that he hated.”

Draco stood up so quickly that the chair toppled over.

“You think I don’t _know_ that?” Draco yelled, vindication taking over when Potter’s eyes widened. “You think I don’t know _exactly_ who I was or the things I have done?”

“Malfoy—”

“Sirius ran away at 16 while I pledged my life to the Dark Lord at the same age. He fought against what I aligned myself with. He made the right choices while I did the opposite. I’m not refuting that, I’m not denying anything. But if you think for a single moment that that means I can’t ever change than you can fuck right off.”

“Malfoy—”

“I’m not the boy who was too afraid to say no,” Draco whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m not the decisions of my past. I will _never_ not know who I once was, but I will also never forget who I am now. You can’t take that away from me, you _won’t_ belittle who I am.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Draco finished as he panted slightly. “You know what? I don’t need your help. I’ll do it without you.”

Potter stood up just as rapidly and knocked over the Muggle contraption in the process.

“I won’t let you.”

“In case it escaped your notice,” Draco snarled. “You have no say in the matter! It’s my business, my art, my project and Sirius was _my_ relative.”

“Blood doesn’t make one family,” Potter whispered bitterly.

“Doesn’t discredit it either,” Draco retorted as his hands balled into fists. “Whether you like it or not, Sirius _was_ my cousin, and I _am_ going to paint him regardless of whether you agree or not. I don’t need you.”

It was a lie, he knew he needed Potter. There was no way he could do it without him, but Draco would be damned to let Potter think he controlled any of it.

“I won’t let you,” Potter repeated, tone quieter than before and filled with less conviction.

“Try and stop me,” Draco warned as he put his cloak back on and turned his back on Potter, the whole conversation, and just the shitty situation in general.

“You know,” he whispered as he placed his hand in the pot that held Floo powder. “I have learned a lot about Sirius over the past few weeks and if you think the person who loved so strongly, and so fiercely wouldn’t be able to see me and give me a second chance, or at least talk to me, then I don’t want to paint him anyway.”

He ignored Potter’s cries of his name, ignored the sound of something breaking behind him, he ignored it all.

If Potter didn’t want to help him, then he’d go it alone.

As usual.

\--

Draco felt Ron before he saw him. There weren’t many people who gave off such a powerful magical aura, it wasn’t common, but Ron did, and it was _strong_.

“Care to tell me why I’m the last to know?”

“You’ll have to elaborate,” Draco said as he moved his hand slowly, carefully outlining where each delicate strand of blond hair would go for the next step of his painting. “There are plenty of things that you don’t know about.”

“Draco, _don’t_.” The anger shouldn’t have surprised him. He had _known_ that Ron would be mad, but the levels to his rage surprised Draco.

“What do you want from me, Ron?”

“I want to know why you didn’t _say_ anything. I could have told you not to go through with it, to not go to Harry.”

“That’s exactly why I _didn’t_ come to you.” Draco turned around to place his brush in its holder and folded his arms across his chest. Paint lingered on the tips of his fingers, but he wasn’t bothered to care.

“You wouldn’t have listened.”

The anger had been replaced by a brief flash of hurt, but Draco couldn’t take it back, couldn’t fix what wasn’t a lie.

“I always listen to you,” Ron whispered as he took a step back. “I’m always there for you and you should have _told_ me.”

Draco shook his head, unwilling to agree. “Harry is your best friend. If I had told you that I wanted to do a piece on Sirius for _me,_ not for him, not for anyone else but for _me,_ you would have turned it into a Potter project. That’s not fair to me. I have waited years to get to know Sirius, years wanting to paint him, years with this image that I can’t escape. And to think that I have to abide by Potter’s wishes is stupid.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Ron’s hands rose only to fall. “You waited years to paint someone you didn’t _know._ Harry has spent the past thirteen years grieving for Sirius, he has spent every day missing him. Harry actually _knew_ him. Can you think outside of your own interests for a single moment and think of what it would feel like for _Harry_?”

He didn’t want to. Draco didn’t want to think about Potter’s interests, didn’t want to go there, not yet, not when he was still so angry.

“Harry had no parental figure, had no one who was there for him. Not only was he an orphan with a shitty family, but he was one with the pressures of the whole world. And then Sirius happened,” Ron whispered as he blinked rapidly. “Sirius loved Harry so much, he cared about him above all else and then _died_ trying to save him. Whatever Sirius is to you, it’s _nothing_ compared to what he is for Harry.

“You _know_ that time doesn’t fix the pain of a loved one that left too soon. It can numb it, but it never goes away, never. To have it sprung on him the way you did was not cool. Sirius isn’t something Harry talks about, the emotions of it all really hit him hard. The way you handled it was callous.”

Draco looked down at his hands. It was embarrassing to be chastised by Ron, but he knew no one else would do it.

“I didn’t mean to be callous. I just wanted to bring Sirius to life, he deserves that. I just wanted to get to know him.”

“I know,” Ron whispered as he stepped forward to pull Draco into a hug. “Your heart was in the right place, but the execution was selfish.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“The truth isn’t supposed to.”

“I’ll have to apologise, won’t I?”

Ron’s fingers played with Draco’s hair at the back of his neck as he chuckled softly. “It would be the right thing to do.”

“Is that what I do now?” Draco wondered, a hint of awe in his voice at the thought. “Am I someone who does the right thing?”

“I’ve always known you could.”

Draco placed his head on Ron’s shoulder and held on tightly. “The best thing Blaise ever did was date you.”

He expected a chuckle, a small laugh or just amusement in general. What he didn’t expect was the hold on his waist to tighten.

“No, the best thing Blaise ever did was choosing to have a friend in you.”

Draco closed his eyes tightly as he tried to tell himself it wasn’t worth it to get choked up.

“Why do you have to be a sap? My heart can’t take it.”

“Yes it can,” Ron countered. “Your heart is just as strong as you are. Just as brave and just as kind. All you have to do is acknowledge that.”

Draco hated it when Ron got wise. Hated how convincing he could be. He wanted to believe it, wanted to think that he was capable of that, but his mind warred with it—warred with what he had always been told.

“That sounds scary. I’m not a Gryffindor like you.”

“You know, I’ve never told anyone this, not even Blaise.”

Draco lifted his head up curiously, the appeal of knowing something that Blaise didn’t was too strong.

“When I was sorted into Gryffindor, I didn’t think that I had the courage like my brothers, didn’t think I’d fit in. All I wanted to do was make my parents proud and prove myself.”

“But you are one of the Gryffindor-iest Gryffindors I have ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Mm,” Draco hummed with his nose scrunched up. “Should you though?”

“Anyway,” Ron said pointedly with a slap to the back of Draco’s head. “I didn’t think the hat would put me in Gryffindor.”

He wanted to snort, but he knew Ron wouldn’t be so kind with the next slap, and he already had a headache.

“Do you want to know what it told me?”

“Yes.” And he did. Despite it all, he wanted to know.

“The hat told me that courage isn’t seen, it’s not visible nor is it always there. Courage isn’t something that someone is born with, it’s something _learned_. Courage is how you approach something, and it doesn’t mean you can’t be afraid during the process. I was told that I had courage inside of me because _everyone_ has courage. I am a Gryffindor because I want to be, because I choose to be.”

Draco chose to hide his face in Ron’s robes instead of responding. If everyone had courage, then did that mean the Sorting Hat was useless? He supposed everyone could embody other House traits if they _wanted_ to. Was it that simple? Could Draco have been in Gryffindor if he had wanted to? Not that he ever would’ve _wanted_ that. Reckless morals would _never_ look good on him.

“I don’t want to be a Gryffindor.”

“Then don’t,” Ron said with a laugh. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t borrow my courage. And when you don’t need it, you can give it back.”

Borrowing courage, he liked that. Ron had a lot of courage to spare, Draco had seen it.

“Alright, I’ll be brave.”

And Merlin, that scared him.

“Hey, I thought I—”

Draco lifted his head up to peer at Blaise who had stopped near the entrance to the studio. There was a small frown on his face and it only deepened when he looked at Draco closely.

“Hey, why is Draco sad? And why am I not in on the hugs? You guys know the rule, no sap hours without me.”

“Then get over here,” Ron said, not bothering to turn around.

Draco patted Ron’s back in an invite and grinned when Blaise joined the hug, sandwiching Ron in the process.

“Ron yelled at me.”

“Ron!”

“He deserved it.”

“Draco!”

Draco tried to only snort, but it turned into a chuckle and then quickly morphed into a full-on laugh.

“I did deserve it,” he admitted quietly. He knew Blaise wouldn’t ask, because that was just the kind of person he was.

“This is nice,” Blaise whispered as he nuzzled the back of Ron’s neck. “Why don’t we do this more often? Or do even _more_?”

“I might be gay,” Draco said with an arched brow as he wiggled enough for Ron to drop his hold. “But not for either of you.”

“What a shame.” Blaise’s arms were wrapped around Ron’s stomach and the smile on Ron’s face was dopey, the sight made Draco’s stomach curdle. They were gross. Gross and in love.

“I can only handle one snarky git at a time.”

Regret never looked better on Ron as Draco watched Blaise take his revenge on Ron, who was running around the room trying to dodge Blaise’s spells.

Just a regular Thursday at _Malfoy’s Magical Restorations._

\-------------------------------


	4. Resentment

The painting was wrong, all wrong, and he knew it, but he couldn’t change it, couldn’t fix it, because it was how it was supposed to go.

Draco kicked out the legs of his easel and watched in disassociated glee as it fell and so did the painting. He knew he wasn’t in the right emotional state to be working, he couldn’t calm his core and therefore magical spikes kept interfering in the colours and morphing them into something else, something new.

“Draco, you have a visitor,” Blaise yelled through an intercom Hermione set up when she found out they had been yelling at each other with Sonorus charms to get messages across. He didn’t understand the point of it if they were still just yelling, all it did was make Blaise’s voice echo louder.

“If it’s Ron, tell him to fuck off,” Draco yelled back as he fought the urge to kick the frame of the portrait. The only reason he didn’t was because it was imported from Greece and it was _expensive_. He wasn’t even mad at Ron, but his mind could not handle the social responsibility to interact with others.

As much as Ron had been right about why Draco had messed up, it wasn’t like Ron could relate, it wasn’t as if Ron _understood_. Ron had a family that loved him, had a family there for him, had a family that gave a damn. All Draco wanted was someone to talk to, someone that could listen to him and someone who had been there.

“Don’t talk about my boyfriend like that.”

Draco wanted to tell Blaise to fuck off too, but even in his angered state, he knew that Blaise had done nothing wrong. 

“Just leave me alone,” Draco whispered, and he hoped that it carried, hoped that one didn’t have to shout for the intercom to pick it up.

“It’s okay,” the painting said softly, so softly that Draco wanted to break it. Soft wasn’t what it should be, the softness wasn’t real. “I believe in you.”

“Do you?” Draco sneered as he gave into the urge and kicked the painting across the floor. “Because not once did you ever tell me that while you were alive.”

“Draco, what are you talking about?” A man who _looked_ like his father said, but the expression was wrong all _wrong_. It was too nice, too open, too welcoming. “I’m your father.”

“The amount of times I have heard that used,” Draco said with a bitter laugh. “Only then it was, ‘I’m your father, do what I say’ or ‘I’m your father and you will respect the Malfoy line’. You sure liked to throw that around as if being my father meant a damn.”

“Draco.”

“No,” Draco said as he picked up his easel and threw it at the wall. “You don’t get to act like I ever mattered to you. Mother may have wanted me to paint a new version of you but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. That doesn’t mean I have to talk to you. You aren’t him, you aren’t real.”

“I’m not new, this is me.”

A hollow laugh escaped Draco as he slid to the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Do you know how many times I wished that were true? How many times I wondered what my life would have been like if you had just _been_ therefor me? Just once.”

“I was, I was always there for you.”

“Shut up!” Draco yelled, and his magic surged so strongly that the glass vials that contained his paint shattered. He placed his palms against his ears and repeated it over and over until it was all his mind was filled with.

“You were never there for me,” he whispered. “Not when I looked up to you as a child, not when I was confused as a teenager, lost as an adolescent and scared as an adult. Every major event in my life passed without you there for me.”

Draco looked up and locked eyes with the painting still on the floor only now he noticed the crack in the frame and the paint that began to corrode from too much residual magic in the air. The paint would melt off the portrait and his work would have been wasted.

His father’s eyes were sad, and just for a moment, a brief moment he wished it were real.

“I love you.”

He had always swore to himself that his father would never break him, not again, never again. But as the words he had _never_ heard from him came out of the fake painting, the tears came, and he _broke_. Broke unlike anything he ever had before.

Draco picked up a jagged piece of the broken easel and vaulted it straight at the diluted version of the portrait’s head.

“I wish that were true,” he whispered as a scream reverberated around the room signifying his magic inside the portrait had died. The tears on his face were the only thing that felt real, the only thing that made sense anymore.

He wiped his nose on his robes and should have felt disgusted that snot would remain on the fabric but all he felt was numb, a numbness that spread not only through his body but also his mind.

What was to be said about a painter who couldn’t find their muse? A painter that couldn’t muck up enough energy to perform their craft? Was he a painter after all? Or a fraud pretending to be one? Draco honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

“Malfoy?”

Draco jerked his head up and his mind blanked at the sight of Potter, who he hadn’t seen since he stormed out of his flat days ago.

How long had Potter been there? How much had he seen? The way Potter looked at him hesitantly wasn’t a good sign, and Draco didn’t want his pity, didn’t want to be looked at like he was fragile, something breakable and _useless_.

“Potter.” His voice cracked, and Draco closed his eyes in defeat. It would seem that nothing was in his favour. 

“Are you—”

“I’m fine.” It came out bitter, angry and Draco didn’t care, didn’t care how it sounded, not when he was still upset, not when his emotions were a mess and so was his life.

Potter didn’t look like he believed it, and Draco couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have bought it either. Potter’s eyes travelled the room and he knew how bad it looked. Broken glass, wood, paint spilled across all surfaces and him at the centre—on the floor.

What a sight.

“I came to apologise,” Potter said after another sweep of the room.

Draco wasn’t in the mood for a conversation, wasn’t in the mood to talk at all. He lifted his hand in the air in what he hoped was a silent gesture for him to continue.

“I talked to Ron and he made me realise some of the things I said were mistakes.”

Some, Draco mouthed, half bitterly and half amused.

“Ron talked to you?” His voice hurt and so did the headache brewing behind his eyes. “He yelled at me the last time I talked to him.” Draco had known that it had been deserved, but no one _liked_ to be yelled at.

“He yelled at me too.”

Draco snorted as he looked up into concerned green eyes. It was odd to have concern from Potter, odd to see such a stark change from the anger that had been there just days ago.

“I never meant to imply that Sirius wouldn’t like you,” Potter promised as he stepped closer. “I know it sounded like that, but the truth is, I don’t know if he would have.”

“It’s alright,” Draco whispered. “He probably wouldn’t have liked me. I’m not a likeable person, Potter.” He gestured towards the broken result of his painting.

Potter stopped walking, frown in place and the anger returned to his eyes.

“You’re going to let the opinion of your piece of shite father dictate your self-worth?”

He probably should have been offended that Potter had insulted his father, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care, couldn’t give a damn about his father let alone his own self-worth.

“You have to have self-worth to let someone else dictate it.”

“That’s a load of codswallop,” Potter snarled. “The man that yelled at me last week had enough self-worth to stand up for himself. The man that turned society on its head with paintings that changed the market had self-worth. The man that walked out of Azkaban and made something of his life had self-worth.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t know,” Potter whispered as he brushed aside the broken glass with his foot and knelt on the floor in front of Draco. “Maybe because you yelled at me.”

Draco’s brows furrowed instinctively. He yelled at a lot of people. Potter wasn’t special.

“No one ever yells at me,” Potter continued with a barely there smile. “No one treats me like that.”

“You want me to yell at you?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Well, no.”

“I don’t understand you,” Draco admitted, but he never had before, so he supposed nothing had changed.

“That makes two of us.”

At least that, Draco could relate to.

“You have self-worth,” Potter continued, eyes so close to Draco’s that he could see specs of gold inside the green and he wondered if they were the same shade as a Snitch.

Draco reached into his robes and pulled out the photo he got from Kennedy. It was a little crumpled around the edges, but it matched the subject to a tee.

“This person didn’t.”

Potter plucked the photo out of his hand and stared down at it with narrowed eyes.

“Yes he did. It might have been muddled, barely there, hidden behind the weight of his decisions, but that self-worth was there. It doesn’t disappear, it only grows.”

“You think mine has grown?”

Potter placed the photo back in Draco’s palm and curled his fingers around Draco’s wrist.

“I _know_ it has.”

Was it a skill of Potter’s that made Draco want to instinctively believe him? Was it personal magic? Or was it just charm?

“And now,” Potter continued. “You just have to realise it for yourself.”

“Sounds hard.”

“It is.”

“I don’t want to.”

Potter chuckled and the hand around his wrist tightened briefly. “I think you do.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“It wouldn’t hurt as much if you didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

When Potter let go of his wrist, Draco missed the warmth immediately. “It took me a long time to find my own self-worth. Sometimes it’s a daily struggle.”

“Is it worth it?”

“I think so,” Potter said as a hand hesitantly rose to wipe Draco’s cheeks. The action was intimate, far more intimate than he expected. He knew a blush stained his cheeks, the heat was too strong and his face too pale.

Draco took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. Perhaps Potter was right. He had _known_ that he had self-worth, but it was hard to remember when the world didn’t have the same opinion. Hard to keep in mind when so much opposed it.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he whispered, unable to look at Potter. Admitting he was sorry was _hard_.

“I’m not.”

Draco tilted his head down just enough to look at Potter.

“I wish you hadn’t started all of this without talking to me, and I wish I hadn’t been the last to know, but you have the right to paint him.”

Potter wouldn’t meet his eyes and Draco panicked, he wasn’t good at comfort, he didn’t know how to make someone feel better.

“Sirius meant the world to me, and if I could’ve had a painting of him when he died, I would have done _anything_. But I moved on from that, I moved on from that part of my life and to have it thrown in my face suddenly was startling. I lashed out and you didn’t deserve that.”

Part of Draco felt like he did, he had _known_ that Sirius meant something to Potter but still chose to wait until the end to tell him.

“Would your answer have been any different if I had told you in the beginning?”

“No,” Potter admitted with a shake of his head and a small quirk of his lips. “I still would have said no. But I think I would have come around, like I’m doing now.”

Draco sat up straighter as he wiped his nose on his sleeve and locked eyes with Potter.

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“I don’t want to,” Potter said softly, so quietly that Draco was grateful that his studio held an echo. “But I will, because I want to see him again. I want a second chance too.”

Second chance? He didn’t know what Potter meant, but the tone was one he didn’t want to question, nor did it feel like it was his place to.

“I could kiss you,” Draco joked as he pulled out his wand and Vanished the glass.

“I’d let you.”

Draco’s leg gave out in surprise and he had to hold onto the desk to remain upright. When he glanced backwards, he took in Potter’s amused smile and he wanted to hex him.

“You won’t regret this,” Draco promised as he set out to begin cleaning the rest of the mess.

“Kissing you? Or the painting?”

He really did hex him that time. Draco ignored the pained cry from Potter as he picked up the ruined painting and set it in the trash. Blaise would kill him over the frame, and he’d probably have to pay for it out of his own pocket, but he didn’t regret it. Not really.

“Do you think we could make an appointment for your questions?” Potter asked as he checked his watch. “I have to meet a publisher in an hour.”

Draco wanted to ask, but that could wait. He gave Potter the days he had free and they settled on the following day. Potter didn’t smile on his way out, but his eyes did, and the distinction _mattered_.

When his studio looked presentable, Draco felt better. Better mentally, better physically and he finally felt like he was right where he was supposed to be.

And he had Potter to partially thank for that.

\--

As Draco sat across from Potter in the same lumpy chair and in the same too-clean flat, he wished they had agreed to meet somewhere else. It wasn’t only the place he had an issue with, it was the nervous fidget Potter kept doing every few minutes. The environment wasn’t the best.

“Well, are you going to begin?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Who was the expert again? Certainly not Potter.

“Are you going to ask me the same questions everyone always does? ‘What was he like, do you miss him, was he _really_ a criminal?’”

“What was your first impression of Sirius?” Draco asked as he ignored Potter completely and held his quill pointedly, ready for whatever answer he’d get.

Potter’s mouth parted then closed, and then repeated the action a few times, much to Draco’s amusement.

“My first impression?”

“Yes,” Draco said slowly, just to get back at Potter. By the scowl on his face, Draco knew he had gotten the message across.

“I was terrified, actually,” Potter said with a small chuckle as he shook his head. 

“Terrified?” Draco hummed curiously as he began to take notes. “Why?”

“He was an escaped convict on the loose and I believed the rumours about him.”

“Was he intimidating?”

“Well you try facing off against a man who looked a breath away from death at only 13 and tell me you wouldn’t be intimidated!”

The defensive tone amused Draco further, he quite liked baiting Potter.

“What changed your mind? What went on in that moment right before you chose to believe _in_ him instead of against him?”

“You know, I’m not entirely sure. One moment I’m so angry that I can’t think properly, my magic just wanted out and so did the anger, and the next moment I’m going against it all and standing up for him.”

“And there was no switch? No defining moment that really sold it for you?”

Potter’s forehead wrinkled harshly enough to cause his nose to scrunch up. “I think it was his eyes. They were wild when I arrived, so vibrant but not in a good way. He was unhinged by his need for revenge. But the more he talked, and the more Remus talked, it was like that wildness slowly disappeared.”

“And what was left?”

“Life,” Potter shrugged. “Sirius was always so full of life, even when upset, angry or disappointed. Even at 13 I wanted to know more, badly enough that I let him tell his side of the story and that was enough for me.”

“Was he convincing?”

“Sirius could convince anyone.”

Draco smiled as he looked down at his notes. Potter wasn’t the first to say that, but for some reason it struck true from him, more so than the others.

“But it wasn’t as if he tried too hard. Sirius was just believable on his own, there was something about him that made me want to put my faith in him.”

“Did that faith ever waver?”

“When he died.”

Draco leaned forward to peer at Potter over the top of the notebook. Potter wouldn’t meet Draco’s eyes as he fidgeted with a loose thread on his trousers. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure what could have been said to that. Was he supposed to offer comfort?

“Did you have a lot in common with him?” It was best to change the subject entirely.

“No.” It was said with a little laugh, and the constant mood swings were hard to keep up with. “Other than being Gryffindors and fighting for the Light side, we really didn’t have much in common. I have never been sure of myself, never knew what I wanted to do or how to do it, but he did. Sirius knew who he was and what he stood for. I expect it was the age difference. He had already lived through his teens, his struggles and a war—I was only just starting.”

“Did he talk about the first war?”

“Not often. He was reserved in that regard, only ever talking about it if it was brought up by others, or if it was necessary for the conversation.”

“Do you know why that is?” His father had been known to talk about the war on occasion, but only with nostalgia and with fond memories of times that _could_ have changed everything. That had always made him uncomfortable.

“War is a mood killer,” Potter said dryly with a wry smile. “Not only that, but the Order the first time around was massive, filled with so many people, talented people who died. The second time around it wasn’t even a fraction of what it had been. The manpower was diminished in comparison and that was hard to ignore.”

“Did Sirius like being in the Order?”

Potter grimaced slightly as he tilted his head. “I think in the beginning he did. He had been in Azkaban for so long, and then on the run for years. I think he wanted excitement, to fight back against those who should have been taken down the first time. His life couldn’t have been good on the run, couldn’t have been fulfilling. The whole world was against him, his name was tarnished, he was made into a mockery and feared by those who had once liked him. Not only that, but he was lumped in with the very people he fought so hard to get away from.”

His mother had rarely spoken of Sirius, but the few times the papers mentioned him, his father would laugh and mention the irony of the whole thing. The Ministry couldn’t lock up real Death Eaters easily but had managed to capture an innocent man.

“And in the end?” he prompted when Potter paused.

“He was miserable in Grimmauld Place. He hated the house, it reminded him of his family, the same family that disowned him and the same family he didn’t want anything to do with. His criminal status made it so that he wasn’t allowed to leave the house, he was stuck day in and day out by himself for most of it.”

“Sounds lonely,” Draco whispered, eyes on his notes but unseeing. The thought of being forced into the Manor as an adult and never allowed to leave made his stomach clench.

“He was,” Potter said just as quietly. “If I could have, I would’ve stayed with him. But I couldn’t, and he suffered, alone.”

“That’s not your fault. You were a teenager.”

Potter’s hands clenched and it baffled Draco. Potter couldn’t honestly blame himself, could he? That made no sense, and it took self-sacrificing to a new extreme.

“What else do you want to know?”

The pointed subject change was enough for Draco to roll his eyes. “Was there ever anything about Sirius that you _didn’t_ agree with?”

“I’m not going to talk badly about him,” Potter said hotly, tone just as hard as his eyes.

“I don’t need you to,” Draco placatingly told him. “I already talked to Severus’ painting.”

“You talked to _Snape_?” There was an accusation in there somewhere, but Draco didn’t care, he wasn’t bothered by it. “Snape, the one person who would fill Sirius’ character with lies.”

“Lies,” Draco hummed. He pulled out his wand and drew a number on the ground. “Potter, tell me what you see.”

“A wonky 9, your spellwork needs fixing.”

The urge to hex Potter was strong, but Draco ignored it—it wouldn’t do well to piss Potter off when he was still needed.

“From my perspective it’s a 6.”

Potter glanced up at Draco only to look down at the number again with a small frown. Draco reversed it so the 6 was now what Potter saw.

“And now it’s a 9 for me,” Draco murmured. “This is just a number, a simple and near depthless number. Sirius was a person with many facets, many emotions, complex thoughts and an individuality that would differ from all perspectives. The Sirius you knew, and the Sirius Severus knew won’t match up, they won’t be the same. But that doesn’t mean his perspective is wrong. It just means that it’s a different number. Perhaps Sirius is the 6 to you and the 9 to him.”

“But his opinions could change your painting.”

“No,” Draco disagreed. “His opinions help me fill in the blanks. If I were to have never talked to Severus, then when I go to paint Sirius, it could have gone wrong. When something is missing from the subject, the magic corrupts the final product.”

“Corrupts it how?”

“Without enough information, I’m left blind to an entire part of what made Sirius who he was. Without that, the painting won’t be accurate, things can go wrong. He could end up not remembering parts of his life, he might start to fade, or the magic could unwind. The things he can remember might be inaccurate or wildly exaggerated. So much can go wrong. You might think you are helping him by not telling me everything, but in reality, you aren’t. It can actually hinder the process.”

“But,” Potter bit his lip before he frowned much deeper than before. “But he was so much more than what Snape saw.”

“Of course he was,” Draco reassured softly. “Everyone is. What Snape saw was only one side, one dimension of the complex person that Sirius was. But I can’t ignore that part of him, I can’t look into his past and turn a blind eye, otherwise my final product won’t be Sirius, it’ll be an illusion.”

“Like the one you did of your father?”

Draco closed his eyes tightly. The _only_ reason he didn’t curse Potter was because of the lack of animosity in his tone. There was no heat, but it still angered Draco. They weren’t there to talk about his father, they weren’t there to question _his_ choices.

“Yes,” he whispered. “My father’s painting, the one you saw, is a true lie. That happens when there isn’t the right amount of information included, when things are done with a heavy bias. If I want to paint Sirius accurately, then I need to know everything I possibly can. Which is _why_ I chose to talk to Severus.”

A long silence followed, and it was what he needed. Draco didn’t open his eyes immediately but allowed himself the time to collect his emotions. Was it just as hard for Potter to talk about Sirius as it was for him to talk about his father?

“I’m not asking you to talk badly about Sirius.” Draco opened his eyes and flushed at the intense look on Potter’s face. “I just want to know more, know him from your side and your observations.”

“Alright.” Potter took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

“Was there ever anything about Sirius that you didn’t agree with?” he repeated, quill at the ready.

“He was reckless, and I know that’s hypocritical of me, but he was. Sirius was smart, I _know_ he was, but he didn’t think, he didn’t stop to consider a full plan sometimes. He came to my rescue when he didn’t need to. Sirius threw his own life away for mine and I can’t live with that.”

Potter looked to the ceiling and blinked slowly, far too slowly for it not to be emotional.

“I would’ve rather died than have him die saving me.”

Draco placed his quill down as he tried not to let Potter’s emotions get to him too.

“And I know he wouldn’t have agreed with that,” Potter continued, eyes still on the ceiling. “Sometimes I used to wonder if he was reckless on purpose. I can’t imagine what he went through. Most of his friends were dead. All he had was me and Remus. I was always at Hogwarts and Remus was busy with the Order. What if he was reckless because he couldn’t stand the way it all was? What if we were all he was staying for? What if it wasn’t enough? Why else would he go? Why would he risk it all? For what? It wasn’t worth it!”

Potter’s eyes screwed shut and his fingers balled into fists.

“You were worth it,” Draco said. “To him, you were worth saving.”

“Am I?” Potter retorted as he raised his hand to cover his face. “What made my life worth more than his? A painting shouldn’t be done because he should be here. He should be alive, and he would be if it wasn’t for me.”

Draco’s heart broke and it appeared Potter’s did too. He could see the tears on Potter’s face and he wasn’t sure what to do.

“It’s not my place to say this,” Draco began hesitantly, “But I think you blaming yourself is taking away the credit for the Dark Lord. He’s the one to blame, not you. I don’t know all of the details, I don’t know exactly what transpired that night, but I _do_ know that none of it would have happened if it weren’t for the Dark Lord.”

“That feels too easy,” Potter contradicted as his hand fell off his face to land on his lap with a thump. “It’s easy to blame Voldemort when he’s not around for the consequences. Letting it go to Voldemort or even Bellatrix means that there’s no reason for it to linger, no placement for the anger that is still here,” he pointed towards his chest.

“If I let them take the blame, then that means I’m supposed to let it go, and if I do that, then what’s left?”

“Acceptance doesn’t mean you forget.” Draco’s Mind Healer might have said that a time or two and he was going to use it to sound wise. “You can still blame them for what happened, let the guilt go and his memory still remain.”

“The injustice would stay too.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed with a shrug. “The injustice will never leave. Sirius died before his time, he was too young and still had a lot of life in him. His death is an injustice, and no amount of time will ever make that disappear.”

“What’s the point then?” Potter argued. “What’s the point of letting it go if the injustice won’t leave?”

“Peace of mind,” he offered. “Your mental health is important, and letting the Dark Lord win even after death doesn’t seem fair either. Sounds like a double injustice to me.”

Potter sat up straighter as his eyes narrowed.

“He wins again, doesn’t he?” Potter whispered. “If I blame myself, he gets away with it.”

Silence was the best answer, he knew Potter wasn’t actually asking his opinion, so he said nothing; just watched Potter figure it out for himself.

“You know,” Potter began after the silence had stretched several minutes. “You’re right. Sirius was complex, and I don’t know anyone who isn’t.”

“Except maybe Lovegood.”

“Well, there’s Luna.”

They both looked at each other before Potter laughed and Draco had to bite his lip. The beginning of a smile lifted one side of his lips but at least he didn’t smile.

“There are a lot more questions that I want to ask, but it’s best if I don’t take it all in at once. I have almost enough to start the painting.”

“What else do you need?”

Draco looked down at his hands, unable to look at Potter.

“I would like to see Grimmauld Place. I need to see the environment he was in, see some of his things that might be there.” He also wanted to know if Phineas had told the truth about the letters.

“I don’t want to go in there.”

He didn’t blame him, residences that used predominantly Dark Magic for centuries would make for an uncomfortable atmosphere, and that was without the emotional impact.

“But, I’ll stay by the door and you can go in.”

“Thank you,” Draco sighed gratefully. He licked his lips nervously before continuing. “Do you think that I could get a memory or two of Sirius?”

The silence that followed was stifling, but it had been expected.

“It’s just,” he looked up at Potter, who wouldn’t look at him. “I want to be able to see him through your eyes. McGonagall gave me two memories and I’d like more.”

“She did?”

Potter’s eyes were now on him, and the intensity was almost too much, almost enough to make him look away, but he didn’t—he _couldn’t_. 

“I haven’t looked at them yet, I wanted to know more about him first, so that it wouldn’t muddle my research. I’m already biased, and I need to be less involved to ensure accurate results. I’ll watch them before I begin painting and then give them back.”

“Can I—” Potter cleared his throat. “Can I look at them before you give them back?”

“Of course.”

Potter’s nose scrunched up and Draco hoped he wouldn’t cry again, he wasn’t sure if his own heart could take it.

“Can I think about it? I just want to be sure before I make a decision.”

“Take all the time you need,” Draco promised before he started to put his things away.

“Oh, you are done?” Potter stood up too, as if he were going to walk Draco to the fireplace. The notion was sweet and a little unheard of.

“I’ve taken up a lot of your time today already.”

“I don’t mind.” It was said in a rush of air as Potter stumbled with the words. “Well, I do, but I also don’t.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile as he stopped near the fireplace and looked up at Potter. “You never make it easy, do you? Say one thing but mean multiple.”

“I think it’s the Gryffindor in me.”

“I think it’s a _you_ thing,” Draco contradicted. “Most Gryffindors boldly say one thing, even when they know they are wrong.”

“Is that so?” Potter mumbled, a small sparkle to his eyes that wasn’t there earlier. “What would a Slytherin do?”

“Say one thing but mean multiple.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Always.”

When Potter smiled enough that his teeth showed, Draco knew he’d be alright, knew that the meeting wouldn’t affect him too strongly.

“Thank you.”

For what, Draco had no idea. Part of him wanted to ask, but he also didn’t want to admit that he was clueless.

“I feel like I should be thanking you.”

“Then do it,” Potter said with a smirk and the brightness in his eyes grew.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, and he meant it. “Thank you for this, I know you didn’t want to and it means a lot to me.”

There was no verbal response, only a nod, but that was enough for him. As Draco stepped into the fire and gave his destination, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Potter, couldn’t look away. The same bravery Ron embodied was so clearly visible in the way Potter stood and for a brief moment, Draco wondered what his life would have been like if he had had even a drop of that courage.

\---------------------------

The vials sat near the Pensieve ready to be used, but Draco hesitated. He wanted to know what Minerva saw in Sirius but viewing the memories would start to shape Sirius in his mind and that was a big step forward. Was he ready for that?

With a deep breath and conflicted mind, he emptied the vials and let himself be pulled forward.

As he looked around the corridor the memory started in, he realised it was Hogwarts. It was late and the dim light from the lanterns casted large ominous shadows. Minerva walked down the hall, heels clicking against the ground causing the sound to echo around them.

Draco walked with Minerva for several minutes before a figure pacing near a bench caught his attention. It wasn’t until he got closer that he realised it was Sirius. A _young_ Sirius. It was hard to guess an age, but he couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16.

Sirius’ hands were in his hair even as he paced, mumbled mutterings were whispered but indecipherable and there was a panicked expression on his face that bordered on stricken. The closer they got to him, the louder the sound of Minerva’s heels became.

When Sirius saw Minerva, his shoulders slumped, and his hands fell limply by his side.

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know—”

“What did you think would happen, Black?” Draco subconsciously took a step away from Minerva at the harsh tone, as well as Sirius did. It wasn’t often Minerva was so angry.

“Did you think leading Snape to Lupin would have resulted in a different outcome?”

Sirius closed his eyes tightly as he placed the back of his hands over them. “I didn’t think—”

“That is an _understatement_.”

“I just wanted him to stop snooping. He’s _always_ snooping.”

“And getting him attacked by a werewolf on the full moon was your answer to that?”

“No,” Sirius nearly yelled.

“Lupin could have _killed_ him. Do you understand that? Do you understand the gravity of your actions? Even if Snape had survived, he would have been a werewolf. You _know_ what Lupin goes through and you would wish that upon someone else?”

“No.” The whisper was filled with so much emotion that Draco couldn’t help but believe it. “It was stupid and I just—I didn’t think, I just—”

“You just what?”

“I don’t know, Professor,” Sirius admitted. “It all happened so quickly. I knew as soon as I told him that it was a mistake, but I didn’t know what to do. I told James and he took off so quickly.”

“At least James wouldn’t take a pathetic school grudge as far as you did.”

Sirius shook his head as he collapsed on the bench.

“I didn’t want Snape dead. I didn’t want him to become a werewolf. I just wanted him to leave us alone.”

“And tell me,” Minerva began as she walked towards the bench. “Have you left _him_ alone? Have you granted him what you seek?”

“No.”

“You should be expelled.”

“I know.” Sirius looked up and there were tears in his eyes. “And I want to beg that you reconsider.”

“Are you going to?”

Sirius shook his head as more tears fell.

“No. I—” His eyes closed, and his shoulders shook. “I’m not.”

“Dumbledore has decided against you being expelled.”

A sob left Sirius and his shoulders shook harder.

“You don’t deserve that,” Minerva continued, and the chastising was so filled with disappointment that Draco almost shifted nervously. “You deserve to be expelled. If it had been up to me, I would have expelled you in a heartbeat.”

“I know.” Sirius’ eyes opened, and they were puffy, red and filled with regret.

“You have detention every Saturday til the end of the year and maybe even next year. 200 points have been taken from Gryffindor, and if the Ministry wouldn’t use this situation against Lupin, I would have filed it with the Juvenile Auror Division and let them decide your fate. As it stands, over the summer you will take a sensitivity course and maybe you will learn how serious this is.”

“I got off light.” The lack of a defense surprised Draco. Was Sirius that self-aware, or just a very repentant person? 

“At least you can admit that. Hatred hasn’t blinded you completely.”

“What do I do?” The choked whisper caused Minerva to close her eyes briefly before she sat on the bench next to Sirius.

“I can’t give you an answer for that. I won’t tell you how to proceed, nor will I tell you to apologise.”

A silence settled around them as Sirius wiped his eyes and looked at the wall, eyes unseeing.

“I want you to put yourself in his position,” Minerva said, and for the first time she wavered in her anger. “I don’t want you to think about your feelings on the matter. Just put yourself in his position and tell me how you would feel. To know that duels had been traded in for whatever horrors _could_ have happened tonight. To know that the hatred ran _that_ deep.”

“I don’t hate him.”

“You don’t? Could have fooled me.”

“I hate who he will become.”

Sirius sat up straighter and looked Minerva in the eyes. “Snape doesn’t make his own choices, he follows along with what he’s been told and lets Dark Magic and the approval of people like _Malfoy_ sway him. He’s just like my family, just as dark and just as mindless.”

“And bullying is the answer? What happened tonight is your way to counter that?”

Sirius shook his head but remained silent.

“There is a difference in fighting for what you believe in and forcing others to think the same. You shame him for letting approval sway his decisions, but what is he supposed to think when the alternative is met with taunts, duels and being bullied? Of course people like Malfoy swayed him, they were the only ones nice to him.”

A low whistle left Draco as he wondered how much Sirius and James’ actions had pushed Severus into his own path. In the end, it was Severus’ decision, but Draco couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if Severus had been left alone.

“So tell me,” Minerva said when Sirius said nothing and only furrowed his brows. “How would you feel? If you had been the one to walk in on Lupin because of such a careless and stupid reason as wanting to be left alone.”

“I’d be furious,” Sirius answered as he placed his head in his hands. “I’d be hurt and sad.”

“Does Snape deserve that? Did he deserve what happened tonight?”

There was a pause between the question and Sirius’ answer, but it didn’t feel like hesitation to Draco, it felt like Sirius took the time to think his answer through.

“No,” Sirius mumbled quietly. “He didn’t.”

“While you sit here and feel sorry for yourself and hopefully Snape, he’s probably wondering what he could have ever done to deserve your actions tonight. And as you’ve said, he doesn’t deserve it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not going to cross _his_ mind.”

An uncomfortable look flittered across Sirius’ face as he raised his head and Draco wondered if it was for himself or for Severus.

“And not only that, but can you fathom what kind of position you put Lupin in. If he had harmed Snape while as a werewolf you would have caused him to be removed by the Ministry and potentially locked away. You took his condition and used it for your own selfish reasons. The guilt would have torn him apart, and I think we both know that.”

Sirius took a shuddering breath and the regret came back tenfold in his expression.

“If you can’t apologise to Snape, then don’t. But at the very least apologise to Lupin, your friend, or at least I thought he was your friend.”

With that, Minerva stood up and walked away without a single glance back. The sound of Sirius crying could be heard over the sound of her heels as the memory faded.

There was no time to gather his thoughts as he was pulled into the next memory.

Shouting was the first thing that Draco registered. The words were hard to decipher but it was obvious by the tone that it wasn’t a polite conversation. By the marbled design, limited space and the gargoyle looking right at him, Draco recognised the entrance to Dumbledore’s office.

“Oh, dear,” Minerva mumbled before she pushed open the door.

“I won’t do it!”

The sight of Sirius’ yelling at Dumbledore caused his lips to curl upward before Draco tried to remain unbiased as he watched the memory unfold. 

“Sirius, the time has—”

Sirius shook his head rapidly as he picked up some kind of silver trinket and threw it against the wall.

“You want me to remain in Grimmauld for _your_ benefit, not mine.”

Dumbledore tilted his head down enough to peer over his spectacles. The blue eyes that usually twinkled, regarded Sirius intently, devoid of warmth.

“Someone needs to remain at headquarters and you are the most qualified.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Sirius said as he clenched his hands. “You want me there because you don’t want me elsewhere. You want me there, so I am under _your_ watch. You want me there because I am a liability, right, that’s what you told Snape.”

Minerva cleared her throat and only Dumbledore looked up; Sirius’ eyes were still on Dumbledore, narrowed as they showed a contempt not many looked at Dumbledore with.

“What’s going on? You asked to see me?”

“Ah, Minerva.” Dumbledore’s pleasant tone and small smile seemed so odd after the way he previously acted, and Draco wondered which one was real, and which one was an act?

“After recent events, it makes sense for us to group together and coordinate what we will do. I have asked Sirius to remain at Grimmauld Place for headquarters.”

“And you think that wise?” Minerva’s eyes glanced towards Sirius briefly. “Grimmauld Place has never been home to our ideals.”

“Places don’t hold prejudice, people do.”

Sirius snorted harshly. “Right, tell that to someone who lived it, why don’t you.”

“Sirius, is this the time?”

“Minnie, if not now then when?” Sirius threw his hands in the air. “I spent 12 years locked in Azkaban and now I’m supposed to spend my foreseeable future locked away in Grimmauld Place. What justice is that? I didn’t fight to get out of there only to return.”

“We know that you are innocent,” Dumbledore was cut off by another harsh snort. “But the rest of the wizarding world does not. You on the run doesn’t help us any.”

“Because that’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Help. You need me more than I need you.”

Minerva frowned as she looked between them and Draco was glad that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand.

“The only thing you care about is Grimmauld Place. You want a secure headquarters and that’s all I am to you, a means to an end. You know that if I denounced all of this, Harry would come with me.”

“Sirius, you can’t possibly—”

“What am I supposed to do?” Sirius stressed as his hands pulled at his unkempt hair. “I have been on the run for 2 years and only _now_ I am being told that my wellbeing matters. For 2 years I was eating scraps from the trash, rats, other animals and very limited food that I could scrounge, and none of the Order gave a fuck. But now that Grimmauld is needed, all of a sudden I matter again?”

Sirius shook his head as he took a step back.

“I don’t buy it. I have never mattered to the Order, for the cause or for any of it and that was made clear the moment I got locked up.”

“Sirius,” Minerva whispered as she took a step forward. “You matter, more than you think.”

When Sirius looked up, Draco could see the resemblance, could see the teenager he once had been in the same watery gaze.

“I wish that were true.”

“Harry is in the middle of all of this,” Dumbledore began, tone solemn, and Draco hated him a little bit for it—hated that Potter was used as a low blow. “Voldemort made sure of that. No matter how much you disagree with my choices, nothing can be done about it.”

Sirius made a noncommittal noise as he pulled his hair into a bun. “I want this known for you and for everyone else.” He paused to look at Minerva briefly before he settled on Dumbledore.

“The _only_ reason I am going along with any of this is for Harry. Voldemort deserves to be taken down, deserves everything he gets coming to him and I’ll be there to see it. One way or another, but it’s not because of you, it’s not because of what _you_ will accomplish. As you said, Harry is in the middle of it all, and he’ll be the one to end it.”

“Harry is just a _child_ ,” Minerva chided, one hand on her hip and the other on her heart.

“Funny how that didn’t stop Voldemort,” retorted Sirius. “I would like nothing more than to keep Harry away from all of it, but it’s Voldemort that is seeking him out. It’s Voldemort that is the root of it all. And it’ll be Voldemort’s downfall.”

Minerva didn’t appear to like that, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Dumbledore spoke first.

“Then you’ll go? You’ll remain at Grimmauld Place?”

“For Harry, not for you, never for you.”

Dumbledore looked down at his hands and for the first time, Draco saw regret, saw something in Dumbledore that wasn’t the know-it-all confident leader that his image projected him as.

As Draco exited the memory, he wasn’t sure what to think, wasn’t sure he could articulate it well. He bottled the memories as he thought over the characterisation that Sirius embodied. People were complicated, chaotic, conflicting and confusing at the best of times.

To hear about Sirius through Severus had impacted one viewpoint, but to _see_ not only the man that Minerva knew, but also the boy, well it changed things. The more information that came to light, the more Draco thought he might understand his cousin—even if it was only marginally.

Passing light from a nearby window shone against the vials and the memories brightened, almost as if they were a beacon. He had to wonder if it was symbolic in a way, would Sirius have brightened the same? Or was his life as pain filled as his ending?

Draco only hoped that Potter could fill in more blanks as time passed on.

\--


	5. Secrets

The sound of laughter could be heard as Draco walked down the pavement behind Potter, walking in his steps and not beside him. The Muggle neighbourhood was not what he expected, it was worse. Muggles in general were fine, and he admired their individuality—only that’s not what he saw. Every house was a replica of the one next to it, every colour and every design the same. The decorations were just as bland as its neighbour and just as boring.

Conformity lacked originality and he couldn’t help the disappointment that flared in response.

“I don’t see why we are here? In a rural Muggle area.”

Potter ignored him, and that annoyed Draco, not enough to say anything, but certainly enough to want to hex him.

When Potter stopped abruptly, Draco nearly collided with his back and had to swerve to avoid the collision altogether.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Draco huffed as he dusted off his vest and glared at Potter.

Potter’s lips quirked briefly before they thinned as he looked up at a stretch of dull houses before them. Draco didn’t see anything worth glancing at but if Potter was going to do it, then so would he.

It wasn’t until Potter waved his wand when the houses began to shake and expand that it made sense. Draco watched in rapture as the entrance to Grimmauld Place was revealed. He had spent _years_ wondering what it would look like, where it would be and when he’d ever get the chance to see it.

“Irony,” he whispered, amused that the Noble House of Black, one of the sacred 28 lineages was hidden in a rundown Muggle neighbourhood.

“No,” Potter disagreed as he took a deep breath and stepped towards the door. “I think it shows _exactly_ who they were. Hide among your enemies while preaching their downfall.”

Draco was reluctantly impressed with Potter’s logic and had to wonder if he had always been so intuitive. He followed behind Potter as the door swung open and he was invited not only into the home but also the wards.

The wards surrounding Grimmauld Place were thick, far thicker than Draco was used to, but it spoke of age, it spoke of old magic and it _fascinated_ him. Decades of old magic layered over the years to provide protection and he wondered how many people had added to it, how many members of his family had put a piece of themselves into the home? His eyes closed as his fingers tingled with magic, just one push and he could add his own layer, but he wouldn’t. Draco could feel his core burn with the urge to just feel, even for a moment, what the magic was like, if it was similar to the wards that surrounded the Manor.

“I would like to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

Potter’s tone was harsh, but Draco didn’t take offence, not when he knew how much Potter detested the idea of coming in the first place.

“Sorry, I was—”

“I know, I could feel it,” Potter said tersely, and Draco felt as if he had overstepped an invisible boundary.

The air was thick and dense as Draco walked through the narrow hallway. He tried to ignore Potter and focus on the house, but his presence was felt despite his efforts.

“Sirius always hated this place.”

The ‘I know’ was on the tip of his tongue but he forced it away, as much as he’d like to say he did, he really didn’t know his cousin, and it wouldn’t do well to upset Potter.

Family heirlooms mounted to the wall drew his attention, but he wasn’t there for that, wasn’t there to explore his own interests. “Which room was his?”

Potter gave basic instructions but refused to go up the stairs with him, and that worried Draco. Had Potter not let go at all? Surely, seeing the room after all the years that had passed would be feasible. In the interests of magical residue, Potter’s absence was a relief, but it didn’t stop the seed of doubt that had arisen.

The plaque on the wall that bore Sirius’ name was faded and the edges had corroded from the lack of magic in the vicinity. It was obvious that Potter had not kept up the maintenance of the house after Sirius’ death, and he had to wonder if Sirius himself had ever kept the house in proper standing.

Draco took a deep breath before he pushed open the door.

The room was a mixture of things that clashed horribly. He wasn’t sure where to look, wasn’t sure what to examine first. The floor was a wreck, as if someone had searched for things in a hurry, but the walls were untouched. Posters from several old Quidditch teams smiled and winked at him. When a few posters didn’t move, he navigated the messy room and peered curiously at the frozen images.

Muggle. They weren’t wizard images. He hummed curiously as he wondered why Sirius would have Muggle posters on his walls, especially regarding who his parents were.

Unless, that was the point.

Draco grinned at the notion, amused with the line of thought and surprisingly proud of his cousin. Rebellion in a pureblood household wasn’t easy, and part of him was baffled that Sirius had been able to get away from it unscathed.

Photos of Sirius as a teenager drew his attention and it was obvious who his friends were. A slightly different familiar mop of hair had his eyes narrowing. Potter looked a lot like his father, there were subtle differences, but he was sure the older Potter got, the less he’d look like his parents. Lupin was tired even as a teenager, but he had been happier than Draco ever saw him as a teacher.

The last remaining person in the photo made Draco uneasy. He had known _of_ Wormtail, even housed him while the Dark Lord took up residence in the Manor, but he hadn’t ever associated himself with him. Gryffindors had never been Draco’s favourite people, but at least they had morals and a backbone—Wormtail had neither.

It was a wonder he had been placed in Gryffindor to begin with.

As Draco stared at the happy boy who looked at the camera with wide eyes, he couldn’t help but wonder if Wormtail knew, if he knew that he didn’t truly care for his friends. How could one if they sold them out so easily?

With a snap of his fingers, Draco encased his hands in a protective barrier to allow him to touch things without disturbing their magical residue or leaving his own. It was obvious that the photos held a Permanent Sticking Charm, and the rebellion in the action was still admirable. He didn’t try to pull off the posters, but instead allowed himself to gauge any magic left behind.

The traces were faint, so faint it left nothing for him to sample, nothing for him to surmise what Sirius’ magic felt like.

Draco took a step back, disappointed but not surprised. He ignored the walls and instead focussed on the items thrown haphazardly on the floor. Some were broken knickknacks or pieces of ripped up newspapers dated from the early ‘70s. Little bits of trash sprinkled in were easily ignored as he made his way to the bed.

Dust had settled and that alone confused Draco more than anything. It wasn’t common for rooms such as Sirius’ to collect dust, not with the magic of the house, the magic of the room and the magic left behind. He made sure not to disturb the dust as he examined the area.

Residual magic was necessary for Draco to begin his painting. If he wanted to accurately depict Sirius, then he _needed_ something tangible to go off of, he needed something to give him a glimpse of the magic that had once been around.

The bed was crooked, and that drew his attention since the frame bolted to the floor was _not._ He lifted the mattress but there was nothing there. When Draco tried to place the mattress straight, it wouldn’t budge.

 _Something_ kept it from righting itself.

Draco reached over the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. Feeling magic without his sight was easier at times, especially if his sight couldn’t understand what it was seeing. The magic of the room was stale, and he had to filter out his own enough to be able to detect anything else.

It wasn’t until Draco moved his hands along the edge of the bed that a shift in the air had him pausing. His eyes opened before they narrowed, and he leaned forward. As far as his eyes were aware, there was nothing there, nothing to cause a shift at all.

A wave of his hand gave nothing, and it only confused him further. He closed his eyes again and concentrated on feeling instead of seeing. The minutes passed as he stood there, bent over the bed, hands outstretched and his eyes closed tightly. The shift was still there, it taunted him the longer he couldn’t figure it out.

Desperation was to blame as Draco pushed his own magic outward, the action breaking a self-imposed rule—it was never wise to intertwine his magic while attempting to gather someone else’s.

When the shift got bigger, Draco’s eyes snapped open and he gasped at the sight of a magical lockbox. Sirius had made it invisible and that was the only explanation for the shift in magic. His eyes narrowed as he tried to see if any precautions had been placed on the box—he didn’t trust Sirius to have left it empty for wards.

The keyhole was thin, far thinner than it should have been. Magical lockboxes required magic to open them, but not just any magic, it had to have been done with a certain frequency—a code of sorts. The thin keyhole caused Draco to wonder if Sirius had altered the box in anyway, and if so, how?

Draco knelt on the ground as he placed his chin on the bed. He didn’t want to attempt to put his magic in there without knowing the frequency, that could cause a shut down or even self-destruct if he wasn’t careful. The longer he looked at the box, the less it made sense. Magical frequency inside a lockbox required a large enough keyhole, or the magic wouldn’t have enough space to expand. Why would Sirius have a lockbox that couldn’t function properly?

Unless, that was the point.

A sigh escaped as Draco stood up again. His eyes hadn’t worked well for him so far, so perhaps it was better to do without. When his eyes closed, and his hands rose, he felt the magic of the lockbox… but he also felt a lot of residual magic, more than he expected, way more than was inside the room.

Was the level of residual magic high due to Sirius having made the lockbox invisible? Had it been so long since it was disturbed that the magic had nowhere to go? Draco summoned a vial and enclosed just a brief amount of magic, enough to help him should he need it during a block—it happened to the best of artists.

The remaining magic was exactly what he needed. It was impossible to guess the frequency, impossible to guess what Sirius could have chosen for a code, but with the residual magic, he didn’t need a code. Sirius’ magic _should_ have been enough. Draco pushed the residual magic towards the keyhole and let the magic encase the box tightly.

_Click._

Draco’s eyes opened immediately at the sound and a breathy sigh left him when the lockbox opened. The box was filled with mostly folded parchment, a few photos, spare ink, galleons and then little things that he couldn’t decipher.

The parchments were what interested Draco the most. There was several of them, all of them written on hastily and in a messy scrawl. He opened the nearest one and began to read.

**Harry,**

**__** _I have rewritten this so many times, and each time it gets longer and longer. I have so much to tell you and it never seems to be the right time. I thought perhaps during holidays it would be the best, but the Order never leaves, does it?_

_Every day I hear more rumours regarding Voldemort’s actions, more whispers of lost bodies, more reports of raids and injuries. It’s hard to keep going when it’s only ever bad news. If we defend one raid, another one is lost. We save one person, two more are gone. It’s not unusual, this was how it began in the first war too, but things aren’t the same. Back then, I was in the middle of it, I was fighting for a chance to change things._

_But here? Here I am stuck inside with nothing to do, nothing to distract myself from the horrors out there. I want to help, I can’t just empathise anymore, that does me no good. I want to help, I want to do more than be stuck in this hellhole._

_Dumbledore says that you are the answer to it all, but fuck that. Why does it have to reside on your shoulders? You are so important to me, and I hate that this is what he wants the finale to be. You have your whole life to live and I wish this wasn’t an obstacle for you. He says the time will come when you’ll go it alone._

_But fuck that._

_I don’t know where Dumbledore gets his information, or why he only shares the bare minimum, but one can’t win a war alone. It’s not possible. Everyone has a part to play, and each role is vital. You may be at the top of it, but you need us, you need all of us._

_Sometimes, I wonder if my own role is meaningless. But that would be hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it? I can’t preach one thing and then deny another. If I want you to believe that you need us, then I need to realise that I am needed too. Easier said than done._

_I miss you. I had hoped that we could get to know each other better. Most of our time has been spent in letters, and the irony of this interaction is not lost on me. I want to know more about you and just who is my godson. I have had an image of you in my mind for so long but it pales to who you actually are._

_Harry, you are a bright student and you love so easily. I can see it in how you treat others, especially your friends. You listened to my story despite the evidence against me, you gave me something I thought I would never get back, and that’s family._

_You are family. My only family, and I cherish you more than I can ever express._

_I know that Hogwarts is difficult right now, Umbridge is a bitch, no doubt about it. However, I know that it’ll get better, even if only marginally. The beautiful thing about Hogwarts is the friendships that are made there, and word around the courtyard is that you have your own army of friends._

_Part of me wonders what the point of this letter is. I can’t tell if I am rambling or if it’s even worth the read. All I know is that I have doubts, so many doubts to our movement and how we proceed from here. I can’t voice them to the Order, because no one wants to listen to someone who can’t set foot outside, no one wants to listen to someone who has nothing to offer._

_So, I’m writing to you in the hopes that you’ll understand—even if only for a moment. Because you know what it’s like to have so much to say but never be taken seriously. Our voices matter and I wish other people understood that._

_I want to tell you so much, I want to bring you into what Dumbledore has planned, but the backlash I have already received for mentioning it is too strong. I never used to take that into consideration, I have always been one to rebel. Rebel against my parents, the norm, society, the Ministry and then Voldemort. So why am I so hesitant to go against Dumbledore?_

_I wish I knew._

_Enough about me. I want to hear about you. Tell me about Hogwarts, tell me about the D.A. and the lessons you have planned. Tell me about your nights, dreams, and your nightmares. Tell me about your friends and even your enemies._

_I just want to hear from you more, just want to know you. How is it that you can mean so much to me and yet I barely know you._

_Just write me. Even if it’s only a few paragraphs, even if you think it’s not worth it. Because it is, you are worth it. Always._

_With much love,_

**Sirius**

Draco released a shaky breath. He sat back on his heels as an uncomfortable feeling took root. Potter should have been the one to read it, not him. He leafed through the other parchments and found other names addressed at the top. Dozens of names and he wasn’t sure who they all were. Indecision caused him to bite his lip as he glanced at the door and then to the letters once more.

“Potter!”

Nothing. He sighed as he continued to look through the lockbox. The trinkets inside were odd, at least odd enough to keep locked away. Draco frowned as he set aside the letters to pick up a rock—just a plain rock. The stone was smooth and rounded, but it held no magic. As he turned it over, he expected to see something to make it _noteworthy_ , but there was nothing—it really was just a rock.

A broken Sneakoscope, a blank photograph, and a broken fang were at the bottom of the box, but Draco couldn’t for the life of him figure out what they meant. Had they been important at one time? Was there a meaning behind them?

“What do you want?”

Draco jumped, the things in his hands nearly falling to the floor as he looked back to door. Potter’s eyes were on the ground, his shoulders were stiff, and his posture was rigid.

“I found a magical lockbox, and there are some things in here—” 

“I don’t care.”

His brows furrowed as he watched Potter curl in on himself.

“I was wondering if I could borrow them, and of course I’ll give them back—”

“Keep it, I don’t want anything.”

Potter’s cold demeanour threw Draco for a loop, he wasn’t sure if it came from grief or what Potter’s problem was.

“There’s a letter, from Sirius to you. It looks like he never sent it.”

Potter glanced up and not for the first time Draco’s heart broke for him. Potter’s eyes were glassy but cold in the way they narrowed.

“I think it’s best if you left and take his stuff with you.”

What? Draco’s mouth parted to ask if Potter was serious, but the thin line of his lips was proof enough. Potter meant business.

“If I should need to re-examine the room? Will I be able to come back?”

Potter turned around rapidly, cloak smacking against the door as a _thud_ reverberated around the room.

“Ron will let you in next time. I’m not coming back.”

Well, it was better than nothing. Draco gathered Sirius’ possessions and placed them in a magically enlarged pocket of his robes before he hurried after Potter.

At least all was not lost. He had gained magical residue and a bunch of clues. All he had left to do was sort it out.

Couldn’t be that hard, right?

\--

**Dear Reg,**

**__** _I thought about leaving it all be and ignoring the urge to write this, but you’re missing and I can’t help but wonder if you are okay. Mother reached out to me, and as shocking as that was, she said you hadn’t come home in months. That’s unlike you._

_It took some digging, but I was able to get intel that you got mixed in something bad, bad enough to be taken out. What did you do? Wasn’t joining Voldemort enough? Or did you get in too deep and tried to run? I don’t know what to think, don’t know who to believe._

_All I know is that you are gone and there isn’t even a body to bury._

_Part of me hates that I didn’t know you were in danger, that you needed help, but would you have wanted it that way? Would you have wanted my help? Would you have wanted me?_

_Are you even alive?_

_I miss you. Is that stupid of me? You never once supported my decisions or my life. I thought that maybe once you joined Voldemort, you would see your mistakes, but I’m not sure if you ever did. You are my baby brother and all I have ever wanted was to protect you._

_I failed._

_My whole life I had to listen to mother preach how you were the prodigal son, the one I needed to strive to be like. As I rebelled against it all, you embraced it, I haven’t forgiven you for that and I don’t know if I ever can. My actions were shunned, my achievements sneered at and my existence ignored; for you. That used to sting growing up, but I think it made me stronger—I know you’d sneer at that, you’d think it was the Gryffindor in me. But I genuinely think I am who I am because of the upbringing I had, I only wish you could have been there by my side._

_How is it that you are the only thing I hold dear from that wretched house? I hate everything our family stands for, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t hate you._

_Is it foolish to hope that you are well? Is it wrong to think you took the coward’s way out and ran, as long as that meant you were alive? The Order stops seeing the opposition as people, people with families that might miss them. I get that, in a way, I do. To empathise with the enemy will only create strife later on, but how can I take this as anything but a loss? I wasn’t given any condolences when the news broke, I wasn’t given sympathy._

_I was told of your absence as if it should be celebrated. One less Death Eater in the world, that’s what they told me._

_You are so much more than a Death Eater, and I hope you know that, I hope that wherever you are that you know that I love you, and I wish you well._

_Please be safe. Please be well. Please be alive._

**Love, Sirius**

Draco set aside the letter as he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. He hadn’t expected to see something that personal from the lockbox. Siblings were a territory he didn’t understand, not fully. He wasn’t sure opposites in a war could come in second to a sibling bond.

He looked down at the mix of read and unread letters with a heavy heart. Each parchment that had been hidden away had been unsent letters ranging from friends to those close to Sirius. Part of him would always feel like an intruder, but it was necessary to ensure the painting would be done accurately.

With a deep exhale, Draco sealed his studio closed with wards, quarantined the room and decompressed all magical residue in the air before he pulled out a blank canvas.

The base of any magical painting was the only foundation that mattered. If he didn’t get the right base, then it would fall flat, literally. Draco closed his eyes as he pulled out the vial that held Sirius’ residual magic. He didn’t want to open it unless absolutely necessary, but just holding it grounded him enough and centred any unbalanced unease.

As he placed primer along the canvas, he repressed the urge to add his own magic into it—the primer held diluted residue of elemental magic to prevent warping and the warring magic always ignited a fight or flight response inside him. Modern artists tended to shy away from elemental magic when it came to art, but there was a _reason_ it worked, a reason why classical artists hadn’t forgone the method. He found that those who used trends in paintings never provided quality content and over time, the results would reflect that. Elemental magic was inside every tool, every paint, every aspect of his work, it’s what made his artwork stand out, it’s what made his pieces timeless and genuine.

Draco pulled out photographs of Sirius when he was younger and compared them to his mugshot and then finally to Order shots after he escaped. As he observed the proportions and the noticeable differences between the years, he committed it to memory before he picked up charcoal and began to outline what would be the most important piece of his career.

\----------------------------

The sound of the same song repeated over and over in Draco’s ears, but he couldn’t stop it, not if he wanted to finish the last few strokes, his concentration was important. He wasn’t sure how long he had been working, it could have been hours, but he had to keep going. It had been a full week since he started the painting and he had to get the proportions right before he started to cure. The paint had been properly mixed for the lean process and most of the beginning layers had been applied. His focus had been on toning the surface and establishing the light and dark areas.

When Draco was done, he took a step back and placed the brush on the table. The oils wouldn’t dry, but the little solvent he added into the paint would minimise the cure wait during oxidation. The longer he examined the painting, the more he wished traditional methods didn’t take so long, the impatient nature in him wanted to start on the next step right away, but he couldn’t.

With a heavy sigh, Draco cleared away his things and stepped out of his studio before wards locked the room and barred entrance for a full week. The sound of Blaise talking could be heard and Draco didn’t want it, that meant it was a customer and he didn’t want to have to be there when Blaise turned the person down.

“He should be done soon, but I can’t predict when it comes to him. Either his muse is there or it’s not. Merlin knows you can’t rush an artist, or you’ll never hear the end of it. The amount of times Draco has bitched—”

“Oi!” Draco yelled as he rounded the corner. The reprimand died on his tongue when he caught sight of Potter leaning against his desk.

“Malfoy,” Potter tilted his head in a polite greeting. The way Potter’s eyes travelled his body made him keenly aware that he was covered in paint stains and there was a wet patch on his trousers from when he spilled solvent and wasn’t bothered to clean it up. Draco wasn’t sure what his hair looked like, but he was positive nothing about his appearance was presentable.

When Blaise wrinkled his nose, a small grimace on his face, he knew that he was doomed. Lovely.

“Potter,” Draco returned, hoping that at least his tone was confident. “What are you doing here?”

“Harry has decided to join us for Exploding Snap night.”

Draco blinked rapidly, his mind trying to compute why Blaise was on a first name basis with Potter and _why_ Potter would go to Exploding Snap night after the last bail.

“That’s tonight?”

Blaise pursed his lips before he sniffed pointedly. “Draco love, how long have you been working today?”

“What’s today?” Draco asked, half joking.

“You don’t look so good,” Potter said as he stood up straighter and narrowed his eyes.

“Thanks,” Draco mumbled as he self-consciously pulled at his sleeves. “Paint tends to get all over, I can’t really help that.”

“No,” argued Potter. “I don’t mean the paint, I mean you look tired.”

Draco shrugged as he bit his bottom lip. He didn’t want to explain that he was always tired, even after waking up, the fatigue never left, and it was all routine now, something to expect.

“Life of a painter.”

“Draco—”

“Save it,” Draco told Blaise, his eyes telling him off more than his words would. They _always_ had the same argument and he didn’t want to do it anymore, especially in front of Potter.

“I’ll tell Ron.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Potter’s brows arched but Draco ignored him.

“You know I would.”

“Ron can shove—”

“I can do what?”

They all startled as the front door closed and Ron fully stepped in. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a greeting,” he said as he kissed Blaise in greeting and glared at Draco before he grinned at Potter.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Apparently, Potter is going to join Exploding Snap night.”

Ron’s grin grew bigger before he smirked at Draco, as if he knew something Draco didn’t—the annoying git.

“We could always use more people, Draco likes to cheat.”

Draco gasped in indignation as he glared. “I will have you know that—”

“Draco isn’t taking care of himself, again,” Blaise interrupted.

Ron ignored Draco’s protest as he stepped into his personal space.

“I am not your guys’ love child no matter how much you wish it so,” Draco grumbled as Ron lifted Draco’s chin and pulled out his wand. “What I do is none of your business.”

“Blaise, why don’t you show Harry some of the awards Draco has won? I’ll be just a minute.”

He couldn’t see over Ron’s face, but he was sure they were communicating silently in the annoying fashion they always did. The sound of Blaise’s voice trailing away as he prattled on faded and Draco jerked out of Ron’s hold.

“You’re dehydrated, your blood pressure is weak, you’re sleep deprived and if I’m not mistaken depressed too.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“Draco,” Ron sighed. “Just because I’m your friend does _not_ mean that my professional opinion is somehow wrong.”

“I don’t want Healer Ron, I just want my friend.”

“And as your friend, I can’t ignore when you need help.”

“I have a Mind Healer.”

“Yeah,” Ron hummed. “And when was the last time you saw them?”

Draco didn’t say anything, and he knew that would speak volumes, but he didn’t want to admit that it had been a year, a full year since his last appointment.

“Needing help isn’t a bad thing, you know that.”

And he did, but that didn’t make it any easier. “I can function as I am.”

“That’s not wise and we both know that. Untreated depression can have lasting side effects.”

“It’s hard,” Draco whispered, unable to look at Ron. “Sometimes I think I’m okay, and then it’s gone in a flash. I’m just so tired, all the time, it never leaves. I just want to paint, that’s all.”

Ron placed a finger under Draco’s chin and forced eye contact.

“The depressed artist is a stereotype that you don’t have to follow. You deserve to be happy, and your artwork deserves to reflect that.”

Draco closed his eyes tightly from the sting and nodded quickly. Ron was right, as usual, and that stung but he appreciated the honesty.

“If I go back, it’s like I’m starting all over again.”

“No, it means you are taking back control.”

“Sounds scary.”

Ron smiled softly as he wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulder and moved them towards the direction Blaise and Potter disappeared.

“You can always borrow my courage, that’s what it’s there for.”

He wasn’t sure what he had done in life to have a friend like Ron, but he was forever grateful. When they reached Potter and Blaise, Draco felt a lot better and knew he’d have to make changes, but it would be worth it.

“How come this plaque has a revision in it? It says second place but then it’s scratched out and first place has been etched instead.”

Blaise groaned as he caught sight of Ron and Draco.

“Now you’ve done it,” Ron grinned.

The bemused expression on Potter’s face would have been comical if Draco hadn’t been focussed on the plaque.

“That’s because Webb robbed me of my win.”

“Webb,” Potter hummed. “That’s an artist, right.”

Draco harrumphed loudly as he folded his arms across his chest. “If that’s what you want to call him.”

Potter looked between them and then to the plaque. “I think I’m missing something.”

“Webb uses shortcuts in his paintings that work for competitions or art shows but fail as the years pass,” Draco said as he stepped up to the first plaque he had won, and the sight of the 2nd place still visible stung. “He uses zinc-based pigments.” When Potter said nothing, Draco spun around, a frown already in place. “Zinc, Potter, zinc.”

“I heard you the first time,” Potter said with a wry smile. “I just don’t see why that matters.”

Ron let out a low whistle as he grabbed Blaise’s hand and walked back towards the office. “We’re just going to go.”

Draco ignored them. It shouldn’t surprise him that Potter had no artistic knowledge whatsoever.

“Zinc-based pigments flake over time and aren’t suitable for such a status as a magical painting. Lead-based would be preferred, but he’s a moron and only cares about money and zinc is cheaper.”

Potter opened his mouth, but Draco talked over him.

“And not only that, but the grade of paint he uses is filled with too much fillers making the colour saturation far less pigmented, reminds me of the art quality beginner students use.”

“But he won?” Potter jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“His methods are flashy,” Draco murmured. “They draw attention but that’s all they are worth. He was given 1st place but when the painting began to warp a year later, it was pulled and given to me.” The award should have been his from the beginning, and he would always be bitter with the Art District for not realising poor quality when it was under their noses.

“Does Webb have a big clientele? I think I saw an article about him in the Daily Prophet last week. Why would people continue to go to someone that doesn’t put in the effort for paintings done right?”

“Because the alternative is getting a painting from a Death Eater,” Draco said as he stood up straighter. “They are willing to sacrifice the quality to avoid their names being connected to me.”

“But that’s—”

“Just how it is,” Draco finished as he turned around. “I’m used to it.”

It didn’t matter if Webb had a bigger clientele, Draco was secure enough in his own abilities that he knew who the better person was, even if society would never see it.

It wasn’t until Draco had almost reached his desk that Potter spoke again, voice carrying over the quiet of the room.

“I’m looking forward to Exploding Snap.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll be there.”

Draco spun around, mouth open to retort but Potter had already walked out the door.

“Well,” Blaise said as the door rattled against the frame. “That was intriguing.”

“Was he flirting or taking the piss?”

“Taking the piss.”

“Flirting.”

Draco looked between Ron and Blaise in exasperation as they both smirked.

“Thanks, that really cleared things up.”

Blaise rolled his eyes as he sat down behind his desk and began to pull out paperwork. “He asked about you while you were in your studio, asked all kinds of questions.”

Against Draco’s better judgement he asked, “Like what?” He glared when Ron snorted.

“How long you were going to be, if your offer of Exploding Snap extended to today as well, how you were doing, things like that.”

“And you didn’t tell the truth, did you?”

“What would be the fun in that?” The smile on Blaise’s face was more of a smirk than a smile.

“I hate you.”

Ron cleared his throat as he checked the time. “I have to get back to work if I’m going to get off in time for tonight. But I think having Harry over is a good thing.”

“Good for _you_ ,” Draco corrected under his breath.

“Try not to drink too much before I get there,” Ron warned Draco, eyes narrowed seriously.

Draco waved the concern away. He wasn’t going to get plastered in front of Potter, that was only an honour he put on his friends. No, it was only polite behaviour in front of guests. And that was all Potter was, a guest.

Nothing more.

\----------------------------

“Is he okay?”

Draco downed another shot of whisky before he narrowed his eyes at Potter, stupid Potter with his bright eyes and equally bright smile, his messy hair that hardly tamed over the years and his horrid clothes that he managed to pull off.

“I’m great.” It came out hoarser than normal, but Draco was a bit too buzzed to care. He wasn’t pissed, but he was on his way there. “Greater than you.”

Blaise snorted into his cards and the sound accidentally set off a domino effect of explosions as each one blew up.

“Ah, fuck!”

Draco’s eyes were still on Potter as he heard Blaise continue to swear.

“I see you’ve had a bit to drink.”

 _“My hand,”_ Blaise moaned pitifully.

“And I see you haven’t,” Draco gestured towards the Butterbeer Potter had nursed since his arrival. Who drank Butterbeer once out of their teens? Embarrassing. He poured a double shot but set it aside as he tried to figure Potter out.

Potter shrugged lightly but his hands clenched on the mug. “Alcohol isn’t up to my tastes.”

“Then you’ve been drinking the wrong kind.”

They stared at each other, Draco unsure why he cared whether Potter drank but he felt like baiting him.

“Maybe,” Potter conceded, but it was too polite, and Draco knew when someone was patronising him.

“Alcohol is great.” It only came out a little slurred, and he took that as a win. “Numbs everything.”

The silence that settled around the room was unnerving, and he kind of wanted to hear Blaise’s swearing just as a distraction.

“Have you ever considered that as a negative?”

Draco frowned, and his tongue poked out in concentration. “Negative? I want to be numb. How could that be a negative?”

“Draco.”

“No,” he waved away Blaise’s concern and tried to narrow his eyes at Potter but ended up closing them completely. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

“When you numb the bad, it doesn’t go away,” Potter whispered, eyes on his hands as he fiddled with an Exploding Snap card. “It only prolongs it, and sometimes it can fester.”

“So?” Draco said petulantly. “As long as I don’t have to deal with it now, what’s it matter?”

“It’s destructive.”

“You can drink, and it not be destructive.”

“Yes,” Potter agreed, eyes locking onto his own. “But is that what you are doing?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you yelled at me.” There was a small smile on Potter’s face and Draco felt his face get hot and he blamed it on the alcohol.

“Draco yells at a lot of people.”

“No one is talking to you Blaise,” Draco didn’t look away from Potter when Blaise scoffed. He couldn’t, not when Potter was looking at him softly, but not as if he were delicate—it was an intoxicating combination, headier than the whisky.

“I like yelling.”

Potter’s lips quirked. “Do you?”

“Mhm,” Draco nodded slowly, not trusting himself to tip over. “Releases endorphins.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Ron, I think.” His forehead pinched as he tried to remember. “No, maybe it was me. I don’t know, does the truth matter?”

Potter’s shoulders shook as he looked down at his mug. “I always thought so.”

“But you’re a Gryffindor, so that makes sense.”

“Slytherins don’t care about the truth?” Potter wondered, one brow arched.

“The truth is always obvious, it’s the lies that are creative.”

The hum Potter let out was almost a melody and Draco shifted closer to hear it. His cards fell on the floor and a few exploded, but that wasn’t important, it was probably Blaise’s fault.

“I can’t tell if you are wise or just full of it.”

“Why not both?” Draco asked as he attempted to be suave in the way he rested his elbow on the table, but it slipped, and his chin hit the wood surface.

“This is embarrassing,” Blaise mumbled.

Potter leaned forward and put his chin in the palm of his hand. “Both,” he murmured. “I like it.”

 _I like you_. Draco’s mind supplied, but he wasn’t drunk enough to say it. Infatuation was all it was, if he were sober, the thought wouldn’t have happened.

When Potter grinned suddenly and all too bright, Draco was confused. He glanced towards Blaise but the traitor that he was had his hand over his mouth laughing.

“You do, do you?”

Maybe he _was_ drunk enough.

“Doesn’t count,” Draco argued. “It’s the alcohol saying it, not me.”

Potter didn’t seem bothered by that, in fact, his smile grew.

“I guess we’ll just have to see if you say that sober.”

Draco wanted to tell him to bugger off, wanted to hex the smile off of Potter’s face but the door opened, and he was too distracted.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ron said in a huff as he took off his cloak and walked towards the table. “Some idiot got a cursed dildo stuck up their arse and I was unlucky enough to have to handle it.”

“Ronnie!”

Ron stopped at the head of the table to narrow his eyes at Draco.

“Why is he drunk?”

“Don’t look at me!” Blaise cried, hands on his hips. “You know how he gets.”

“Was the dildo big?” Draco wondered as he squinted, Ron was too far away but he was pretty sure a scowl was directed his way.

“Yeah actually it—no, that’s beside the point, I thought you said you wouldn’t drink a lot.”

“I didn’t,” Draco argued as he picked up his glass and poked his tongue at the whisky, not drinking it but just tasting it. “I showed restraint.”

Ron eyed the near empty bottle of Firewhisky before he folded his arms across his chest.

“I only had 4 shots.”

“6 if you count that,” Potter pointed out with a nod towards the glass in his hands.

“Well, I don’t count it,” Draco sniffed as he lifted his nose in the air. “I haven’t finished it.” He poked his tongue into the glass again as he looked at Ron.

Ron said nothing as he made his way towards Blaise and collapsed in his lap.

“Long day?” Blaise asked softly as he wrapped his arms around Ron and pulled him closer.

“Merlin, yes. I wanted to hex everyone who came in.”

“What horrible bedside manner you have Mister Healer.”

“Urgh,” Draco scoffed as he turned around in his seat to avoid their incessant flirting. The only other thing to look at was Potter, who was watching Blaise and Ron with a soft smile on his face.

“They are gross.”

Potter glanced at him briefly as Blaise and Ron started whispering to each other. “I think it’s sweet.”

“You would.” The sentimental bastard.

“You don’t want something like that?”

Draco swallowed heavily, and he refused to look at his friends. He loved them, but it was hard to not be jealous when they had something special. He had been there when they had tentatively started out, been there for their awkward flirting, been there through the small fights and stupid arguments. But what had always stood out was their love, and Draco envied that.

“No,” he whispered, unsure if it was a lie. “That kind of love makes one vulnerable.” He didn’t want to give someone else that power over him.

Potter acknowledged that with a tilt of his head. “They say it’s worth it.”

“What do you think?”

The way Potter bit his lip as he concentrated took away Draco’s focus completely. He had to force himself to meet Potter’s eye.

“I never found that. I thought I did, but I never fully let them in.”

That, Draco could relate to.

“But,” Potter continued with a small frown. “I think it would be worth it, with the right person.”

Finding the right person was the challenge, one Draco wasn’t sure he was up for.

“Sounds scary.”

“Definitely.”

“I’m not brave.”

“Yes, you are.”

Draco rolled his eyes, he didn’t feel like arguing with Potter, for once. “How about you be brave enough for the both of us?”

When Potter’s eyes widened, he realised how it came out and his breath came in as a wheezy cough.

“I meant—”

“Take a walk with me?”

Draco sat up straighter before he leaned forward to get closer to Potter.

“Why?”

“The fresh air might help you,” Potter gestured towards the shot still in Draco’s hands. Normally, he would have licked the whisky just to spite Potter, but as he stared down at the alcohol, he didn’t feel like drinking it—didn’t want to numb whatever Potter was igniting inside him.

“Alright.”

Draco placed his glass down too hard and the whisky spilled over, but that was a mess for Blaise to clean. As he stood up, he had to do it slowly and carefully, perhaps he _had_ taken too many shots.

A strong grip on his elbow caused Draco to look up at Potter curiously.

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“That’s the thing about Gryffindors, they help anyway.”

“Sounds stupid.”

Potter’s smile was beautiful, and Draco hated it, hated that it could get to him even through the alcohol. It wasn’t until they reached the door, that Ron yelled after them.

“Oi, you’re just going to leave and not say anything?”

“Piss off Ron,” Draco said just as loudly and closed the door to the sound of Blaise laughing.

“You come to their house often?” Potter asked, hand still on Draco’s elbow, and the warmth of it felt nice to the chill of the air.

“More than I should.” He wasn’t sure if the honesty was the alcohol or Potter’s presence. “I like being alone while I work, but without something to focus on, my mind is pretty loud, you know? Far louder than my empty flat.”

“I get that.” Potter’s eyes didn’t hold sympathy but instead understanding, and strangely enough, Draco believed him.

Potter led them down a path Draco hadn’t gone before but as long as one of them knew where they were going, it was fine by him.

“What is it you do?” Draco asked partially out of curiosity but also because the silence was too much. “Ron’s never said.”

The silence stretched, and he wasn’t sure if Potter was ignoring him or if he was tipsy enough to have made the whole thing up.

“I’m an author. I write history books, both Muggle and wizard history.”

Draco tilted his head back in surprise. An author? That hadn’t been what he expected at all. “But if you write history books, wouldn’t that be common knowledge? I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“That’s because that’s how I want it.”

Oh. He came to a stop and frowned at Potter.

“You crave anonymity?”

“It’s nice not having my name connected to something,” Potter’s jaw clenched and so did his fists. “I like doing something that impacts other people but still distances myself at the same time.”

“And your books, do they do well?”

Potter shrugged once. “They’re sold in several retailers across the world. The Muggle school system will implement my latest one next year.”

“And the wizard one?”

“No one wants to be reminded of the past.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Potter kicked a rock on the ground hard, hard enough that when it collided with a lamp post, it clanged loudly.

“I’ve been told that I need to restrict what I put in my books. That sensitivity is required.”

Before Draco could ask for clarification Potter kept going, hands moving rapidly in frustration.

“When I was in Hogwarts, History of Magic was boring, useless and never presented in a way that was easy for the children to understand.”

“Could’ve been the teacher,” Draco mused thoughtfully. The subject had never been his favourite, but he also never bothered to listen to Binns much.

“Sure,” Potter agreed easily. “But the books themselves were incomplete and missing so much. History is always written by the victors and it shouldn’t be that way. So much is left out, so much so that I could fill a dozen books and still have things left over.”

“And you’ve been turned down?”

“More like laughed at,” grumbled Potter. It was barely audible, and Draco wasn’t sure if he was meant to have heard it at all.

“The Ministry wants to perpetrate the idea that everything that could have been done in the past, was done. They don’t want anyone to see how history just repeated itself, and part of the blame in that lies in the lack of education for the youth. How can we teach if not by example? If we don’t show the mistakes of the past, then nothing will change.”

The sense of authority and strength to Potter was palpable and it made Draco _listen._ Potter hadn’t said much but he was ready to believe it so readily.

“You know,” Draco began hesitantly. “If you put your name on it, they’d take you seriously.”

“I want them to take me seriously _as_ I am, not because of _who_ I am.”

Morals, that’s what it came down to, and maybe pride. Was it a Gryffindor thing? To him, the answer was simple, and it would make Potter’s life easier if he just put his name out there. Perhaps Gryffindors were just morons.

“Alright,” Draco conceded, it wasn’t his place to argue, but that didn’t mean it made sense. “I’m sure it’ll happen soon.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile at how disgruntled Potter was. “I’m not good at sympathy; patronising is the next best thing.”

“You _are_ aware that makes no sense, right?”

The smile on Potter’s face didn’t make sense either, but Draco wasn’t pointing that out, Potter was just rude.

“Do you think when you finish your next book, you could send me a copy?”

“Why?” Potter searched his face, eyes not quite hard but they weren’t warm either.

“It’s never too late to learn something new.”

“Is that the real reason?”

“Maybe it’s because you let me yell at you.”

Potter grinned so wide Draco could see his gums and it took his breath away, it wasn’t fair. When he was pulled forward and they walked back the way they came, Draco couldn’t help but push it.

“Is your silence a yes? You’ll send me a copy?”

“Yeah, I think I will.” The way Potter’s eyes crinkled when he smiled was another thing Draco hated, he just wished the butterflies in his stomach did too.

When they made it to the front door and Draco turned the knob, Potter’s hand slipped from his elbow.

“I’m actually going to head home, I have an early appointment tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in his tone made him cringe, but it was too late to take back, and he couldn’t help but scowl when Potter’s lips curled slightly.

“But I had a lot of fun, maybe you guys are onto something with Exploding Snap night.”

Before Draco could tell Potter that _of course_ they were onto something since _he_ was the one to come up with the idea, Potter stepped forward and kissed his cheek.

Potter kissed his cheek.

He could only blink as his hand rose to touch his cheek, and his mind was tricked into believing he could still feel the warmth of Potter’s lips.

“See you another time, Draco.”

The gasp Draco let out was drowned out by the crack of a Disapparation and he blinked at the spot where Potter once stood.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” he grumbled as he opened the door and slammed it shut.

“You wankers better be decent, I’m spending the night,” He yelled as he walked into the living room and knelt by the hearth.

“That’s funny, I’m sure that’s not the way to the guest bedroom,” Ron said in bemusement and Draco flipped him off over his shoulder.

He threw in a pinch of Floo powder and waited impatiently as a familiar face appeared.

“Draco darling, you look flushed.”

“Alcohol,” both Draco and Ron said in unison.

“Pansy, your dad still owns that publishing company, right?”

“Several of them,” she replied, curiosity making her nose scrunch up. “Are you writing something? An autobiography? Because if so, I hate to break it to you, but your life is too depressing to be put on paper.”

“I hate you.”

Laughter rang out and the sound would always calm him. Merlin, he missed her.

“What do you need?” Pansy asked seriously, and that was why he loved her. No matter what it was about, he knew she’d always be there for him. “I can give you the contact information for all of them, but it might be better for me to owl Father.”

“I know someone who deserves a shot and I think your father’s company would benefit from it.”

Pansy’s brows arched as she watched him closely. He knew she was picking up on more than he was saying, that was the downside of being so close, but he wasn’t going to give up Potter’s secret, that wasn’t right.

“Alright, I’ll have him contact you.”

Relief coursed through him as he said his goodbyes and he wished he could be more forthcoming, but that would happen in due time. It wasn’t until the fire went out and he stood up, that he noticed Ron was still there.

“Thank you,” Ron whispered before Draco was pulled into a hug. “I had my doubts, and I still do, but you will be good for him.”

“Oi,” Draco cried as he tried so shove Ron off him. “Potter and I aren’t together nor are we going to be.”

The lack of response was telling, but he didn’t have the energy to argue with Ron, especially since the hug was quite nice.

“How many times do I have to tell you both that the sap hours can’t happen without me?”

Draco lifted one arm and let Blaise in on the group hug. Exploding Snap night hadn’t gone as he thought it would, but that was alright. He learned a lot, gained new information and maybe got somewhere with Potter.

He still wasn’t drunk enough, but perhaps that was a good thing.

\---------------------


	6. Beginnings

Draco tapped his fingers against his leg as he stared at the painting. Something was _wrong._ The proportions were right and the colours accurate. He had let the canvas cure for a full week and even started to grisaille, but still, something was off.

The longer he stared, the more frustrated he became. The elemental magic was strong, but not overpowering, his own magic was limited, and the paint itself was perfect.

So, what was the problem?

“Blaise,” Draco yelled as he pressed the intercom. “I need to talk through a stall.”

“I’m listening.” He could hear a quill scratching and was annoyed that Blaise was multitasking.

“The painting is wrong.” The sound of the quill disappeared, and he tried not to be smug at that.

“How so? Is it the solvent again? We contacted the company after the last bad batch.”

“No,” Draco shook his head. “It’s not that. Everything to do with the supplies are fine, but the painting still doesn’t _feel_ right.”

Sometimes, Blaise said he was too picky, too judgemental when it came to his work, but he had to be if it was to be done properly.

“Where are you at in the painting?”

“I just toned the face and was about to add more detail to his clothes before letting it cure again.”

“Not far at all then.”

“Hey,” Draco complained. “You can’t rush art. I’m not Webb, quality work takes time.”

Blaise sighed, and he was sure it had been accompanied by an eye roll as well.

“Do you know what’s the issue?”

“If I knew that, why would I be talking to you right now?” Draco gritted his teeth and wondered, not for the first time, why he had ever thought going into business with a friend had been a good idea.

“You don’t have to be rude.”

“Blaise,” Draco warned.

“Start over, that’s all I can offer.”

The pressure on the intercom slipped as Draco let his hand drop. He hadn’t wanted to start over, he had _hoped_ that talking to Blaise would have stirred some kind of inspiration, but it hadn’t.

With a heavy heart and severe disappointment, Draco picked up the canvas and set it aside.

“Take two it is.”

\----------------------------

“Draco, are you ready to go?”

The sound of Blaise yelling almost distracted him, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care, not when the answer was right out of his grasp, just out of his reach.

“Draco?”

“What?” He yelled back before he realised he hadn’t pressed the intercom button. He took a deep breath before he placed his brush down.

“What?” Draco repeated, far calmer than he felt.

“It’s almost time for Exploding Snap night and you haven’t left your studio at all. Have you even eaten lunch?”

Draco checked the time, surprised to find that Blaise was right.

“I’m not going. I have work to do still.”

“Draco.”

The sigh at the end didn’t improve his mood, only worsened it.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Something is still wrong, and I can’t figure it out.”

“How many does this make? It’s been _weeks_.”

“Just go.” He didn’t want to admit that it was his third take, his third failed painting. “Tell Ron I’m sorry.”

“Harry will be there too.”

Draco closed his eyes. His resolve strengthened; he couldn’t see Potter when the painting was frozen, couldn’t do nothing while his work was failing.

“That changes nothing.”

“A break might help,” Blaise offered, and he could he hear the twinge of desperation in the plea, but it wasn’t enough. “You could use—”

“Goodnight, Blaise.”

The intercom cut off and the silence of the studio was almost as loud as the interruption. He glanced back to the canvas and shook his head. It was frustrating to have the urge to create, the passion to perform but nothing to come forward. Draco wasn’t sure if it was an art block or if something was just wrong with him.

The brushes on the table mocked him, but it was no use picking one up, not when his muse was gone, having left weeks ago. He slid to the floor and rested his head against the leg of the table as he stared up at his unfinished work.

If it had been any other painting, he might have tried to do an experimental push to get past the block and just paint, but he couldn’t. Sirius’ painting meant too much to proceed without knowing what he was missing.

Time passed the longer Draco sat there, his legs cramped as he alternated his position, but he couldn’t change it, couldn’t get up and leave. If there was a breakthrough, he wanted to be in his studio for it.

A knock on the door startled him—Blaise knew better than to interrupt physically and that meant it was someone else. Draco scrambled to get up. He was halfway to the entrance before he recognised a messy mop of hair.

Draco unsheathed his wand and placed a barrier behind him before he opened the door.

“Potter, what are you doing here? I thought Blaise said you would be at Exploding Snap night?”

Potter’s hands were shoved into his trousers and he appeared uncharacteristically timid.

“Maybe it’s not as fun without you there, getting drunk and making a fool of yourself.”

“It’s okay to miss me, Potter,” Draco drawled as he tried not to let the words go to his heart. “Your execution was solid, but your words need work next time you want to compliment me.”

Potter looked over Draco’s shoulder curiously as he let him in.

“What’s with the—”

Draco flicked his wand and decompressed Potter’s magical residue and cleared any lingering magic from in the air.

“Sorry, you have to be clean magically before you enter the rest of the studio.”

“Blaise didn’t make me do that last time.”

“Blaise is an idiot.”

Potter snorted as he walked towards the easel in the centre of the room. “Is this—” His voice cut out as he came to a standstill.

“Yeah, that’s the beginning of him.”

“It looks nothing like him.”

A small chuckle escaped Draco as he stopped next to Potter. “Well it’s not going to till I get closer.”

“Does it usually take this long to get to this point?”

“Talked to Ron then, I take it?”

Potter looked at him a little sheepishly. “Blaise was miffed during the beginning of the game but wouldn’t say what was bothering him.”

Draco should have felt guilty, but he was still too annoyed with Blaise to care.

“Ron said I might be able to help you out but didn’t say how.”

There was an obvious question in there, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to relent, wasn’t sure he wanted to admit defeat.

“No,” Draco said slowly as he slid back down on the floor and looked up at the painting. “Usually, I am well past this stage. I can do all of this easily, it’s child’s play.”

“But,” Potter prompted when Draco said nothing further.

It wasn’t until Potter sat next to him on the floor that he continued.

“But something’s wrong.” It hurt to admit, hurt much more than it did with Blaise. With Blaise it was just another painting, another subject that meant nothing to his friend, but with Potter, it meant _everything._

“I’ve tried to figure it out, but I can’t.” He balled his fists tightly, his nails digging into his palm. “I started over three times now and there’s a problem every time.”

“What kind of problem?”

Draco wanted to snap at him, wanted to let the anger out but Potter didn’t deserve that. “I think something is missing, but I don’t know what.”

Potter was silent for awhile, and it was almost like he was thinking it over. They stared at the painting for a long time after that, saying nothing, just existing near each other. It was comforting, in a way.

“Would it help if I gave you the memories you wanted?”

He sucked in a sharp breath as he turned towards Potter and folded his legs behind him. “That’s something you’d be okay with?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.”

" _Thank you,_ " Draco breathed, and he had to fight the urge to throw his arms around Potter and hug him… or worse, kiss him.

Draco pulled them both up and moved towards the door to place another shield up. “I can’t have your magic tainting the air,” he explained as Potter pulled out a wand.

“Here.” He handed him a vial and watched as Potter took a deep breath and raised the wand to his temple. It took longer than normal and was thicker than the average memory strand.

“There’s more than one,” Draco said as Potter placed the vial in his hands. Nothing was said in return but that was alright, he had the memory. The shield was deactivated before he went to the Pensive he kept on a shelf.

“Do you want to come?” He asked tentatively when Potter didn’t move from his spot near the door.

“I’d rather stay here.”

“Alright.” He wasn’t going to force him, and the absence of another person worked best for him anyway. “I don’t mind if you stay here, but please don’t touch anything.”

Potter rolled his eyes and Draco wished they weren’t in a sterile environment or he would have hexed him.

With a deep breath, he poured the memory into the Pensive and wasted no time as he leaned forward and was pulled in.

“Harry I’m sorry!”

The distorted words were the first thing Draco heard and he looked around, eyes widening when he realised where they were. The Department of Mysteries.

“It doesn’t matter, Neville,” Potter shouted as he tried to support what appeared to be an injured Longbottom. There was a gash on Longbottom’s face and he was clearly in pain. “Just try and stand, let’s get out of here.”

There were shouts in the distance and explosions as stray spells collided with things. As Draco looked around, he recognised a few Death Eaters and even some Order members.

“Dumbledore!” Neville shouted as he wobbled slightly, and his face shone from perspiration. He pointed when Potter looked around in confusion.

Draco turned with Potter and watched Dumbledore charge into the room, wand at the ready, his face furious and his magical aura _powerful_. When nearby Death Eaters disappeared at the sight of Dumbledore, Draco really couldn’t blame them. 

Dumbledore’s appearance broke up all fights but one: Bellatrix and Sirius.

“Come on, you can do better than that!” Sirius jeered, face twisted in a perverse glee, as if he was enjoying himself. Sirius dodged one jet of light but missed the second one as it hit him square in the chest.

The laughter on Sirius’ face did not fade as his body froze, his eyes widened briefly, as if in his last moments, he realised what had happened and couldn’t believe it.

Potter’s arms dropped from Longbottom as he pulled out his wand and… remained immobile. Sirius’ body curved as it fell backward and through the veil on the dais. The laughter had disappeared in the last seconds and all that remained was peace, and even as Draco’s eyes stung at the way Potter yelled Sirius’ name, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the first time Sirius had been at peace since his escape from Azkaban. 

Bellatrix’s cold laughter could be heard as Potter yelled again and _again_ , and Draco felt his heart break.

When Potter ran forward, intent clearly written on his face, Draco watched Lupin hold him back. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“But he’s only just gone through,” Potter argued. “We can still save him.”

Draco closed his eyes tightly at the desperation he could hear. The earnest innocence hurt, and he couldn’t imagine having lost someone so young.

“There’s nothing we can do. He’s gone, Harry,” Lupin whispered, and his voice cracked. “He’s gone.”

The memory faded, and part of Draco wished he hadn’t seen it at all.

Screams were the first thing that registered, and he had to fight the urge to cover his ears.

“Mudbloods! Creatures of filth! Traitors! Scum!” He looked around and recognised the painting of Walburga Black. It was done by his past mentor, and the brief pain of longing was unwelcome, but expected.

“Harry, you are to come with Tonks and I,” someone shouted, and it wasn’t until Draco looked around that he realised it was Mrs Weasley. “Leave Hedwig and your trunk behind, Alastor’s going to handle the luggage. Oh! For Merlin’s sake, Sirius! Dumbledore said no!”

Draco turned in time to see a giant dog barrel down the stairs, tongue lolled sideways and tail happily wagging. Sirius as his Animagus was cute, and he reluctantly could admit that. Sirius clambered over the trunks, knocking a few over in the process to get to Harry and Mrs Weasley.

Mrs Weasley sighed as she placed her hands on her hips. “It’ll be on your head,” she warned and that seemed to be enough for Sirius as he ran out the front door and into the street.

“Where’s Tonks?” Potter asked as he and Mrs Weasley closed the door behind them and began to walk towards their destination.

“She’s just up the road a bit.” Her eyes were on Sirius who was galloping between them, tail moving so rapidly it hit their cloaks.

As Mrs Weasley talked to Tonks, whose disguise looked like an elderly woman, Draco’s eyes were on Sirius as a loud bark drew his attention.

Sirius ran circles around their feet in the pursuit of chasing pigeons before he began to chase his own tail. It was sad that the only memories he had seen of Sirius having been happy was when he was a dog.

The more Draco watched, the more he saw the way Potter had a soft spot for Sirius. It was easy to see in the way his hands scratched behind the dog’s ears, obvious in the way he made sure to look around the road for anything that could harm Sirius. It wasn’t one way, Sirius obviously cared for Potter, if the gentle licks to his hand, and goofing off for his amusement was anything to go off of.

When it came time for goodbyes and Sirius placed his paws on Potter’s shoulders, Draco wondered what that kind of bond would have felt like. He had never had that growing up, never had a parent there for him, not really, not in the ways that _mattered_.

As the train took off and Draco watched Potter wave to Sirius who was running after the train and barking, he felt a flare of envy before he quashed it. He wasn’t sure he would want to have something so special for it to have been taken so quickly.

Perhaps it was better to do without than to lose it.

The memories began to come in rapid succession after that, quick flashes. Sirius pulling Potter into a strong hug on the night of Cedric’s death. _Flash._ Sirius’ head floating in a fireplace, both him and Potter were smiling at each other. _Flash._ Letters Sirius wrote to Potter were carefully read and gingerly put away. _Flash._ Sirius’ signature signifying his permission as Potter’s godfather to allow entry into Hogsmeade. _Flash._ The moment Potter realised that Sirius had been the one to send him the Firebolt. _Flash._

The memories had been a lot to take in and his head swam with so much additional information that he almost didn’t realise the flashes bled into another memory.

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

It was dark in the memory, but Draco was able to recognise Hogwarts’ grounds. He looked around, baffled as to why Ron, Pettigrew and Lupin were shackled together, why Severus was floating behind them unconscious and a cat with a squished face was leading the group with Potter, Hermione and Sirius making up the rear.

“Yeah,” Potter mumbled quietly. “You’re free.”

“Yes,” said Sirius slowly as he shifted uncomfortably. “But I’m also—I don’t know if anyone has told you, but I’m also your godfather.”

“I know.” Potter turned towards Sirius and his eyes watched him closely.

“Your parents appointed me your guardian,” Sirius hedged, and Draco rolled his eyes. Watching Sirius struggle to get to the point was painful. “If anything happened to them…” he trailed off expectantly, as if waiting for Potter to finish it for him.

When Potter said nothing, Sirius’ nose wrinkled slightly. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to come with me and preferred to stay with your aunt and uncle. But, well, think about it. Once my name is cleared you could come with me, have a new home if you’d like.”

“What, come live with you?” Potter came to a standstill and the group continued moving without them.

“Of course, you wouldn’t want to,” Sirius said in a quick inhale as his hands rose. “I just thought—I understand—”

“Are you insane?” There was a croaky quality to Potter’s voice and that’s when it _clicked_ for Draco. As he watched Potter hurry to explain that _of course_ living with Sirius was preferable, he realised that this was where it began, this was where their bond grew and took root.

Potter had shown him the end first so that he could truly appreciate the beginning and as the memory faded and he felt himself shoved out of the Pensive, he thought perhaps he understood Potter a little better now.

He placed the vial in the Pensive to collect the memories as his mind began to race with new things that could be added to the painting. It was his first surge of inspiration and he didn’t want to lose it.

“Thank you,” Draco said without looking up as he stoppered the vial. Silence was his answer, and only then did he glance towards Potter, who hadn’t moved from his position by the door. The only thing that had changed was the stiff posture and clenched fists.

“I think it’ll be helpful,” he continued as he walked towards Potter and placed the vial in his hands.

Potter jerked once, jaw clenched just as tightly as his fists, and Draco wondered if it was sorrow or anger. The latter didn’t make sense but grieving never had a monopoly on only sad emotions.

“Did you learn anything?”

“Oh, I learned a lot.”

“Like what?” Potter’s eyes flicked towards his briefly before they flittered away.

“I learned that Sirius was compassionate and that he loved you so much.”

Potter closed his eyes tightly and shook his head quickly as if to dispel thoughts or even emotions.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” reassured Draco. “We can talk about something else if you’d like.”

It was silent for a moment and he was worried Potter was going to turn him down. He wasn’t opposed to that, but he wanted to return the help that Potter had provided him.

“What made you want to paint?”

Draco tensed, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Potter. Part of him, the insecure and bitter part, wanted to tell him to piss off, but he couldn’t do that—not after the memories, not after Potter put himself out there.

“Because I was told I wasn’t allowed to.”

Potter’s hands fell as he frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My father had expectations for me, and none of them included something as ‘frivolous’ and as ‘useless’ as an artist.” He picked at the paint on his fingers and belatedly wished he had noticed it sooner. “I was meant to follow in his footsteps, meant to take over the household and become a politician.”

“You didn’t want that.”

It wasn’t a question, but it felt like it deserved an answer.

“No,” he murmured. “I didn’t. Maybe as a child I wanted his approval, I wanted him to be proud of me—” He cut off to take a calming breath as he blinked rapidly. “But it didn’t matter what I did or if I had become what he wanted, my father _never_ would have been proud. That’s just who he was.”

“I don’t think your art is frivolous.”

Draco glanced up and the smile that curved his lips was instinctual. “Thank you,” he whispered as the urge to step closer to Potter was too strong to fight.

“I think your art is beautiful.”

Compliments such as that had been heard, but usually from clients or those close to him, never offered so freely before and it meant a lot to him.

Potter cleared his throat before he looked away from Draco’s face and focussed on his hands instead.

“It was rebellion, then?” He wondered. “You became a painter out of spite?”

“Partially,” admitted Draco with a careless shrug. “But I was curious, always had been. The Manor is full of paintings, they go back through the Malfoy line all the way to the beginning.”

Potter let out a low whistle, something Draco ignored as he leaned against the door, just a few inches shy of them touching.

“They never would talk to me. I was given a wide range of excuses, ‘you are too young’, ‘you are not fit to be a Malfoy heir’, ‘come back when you enter Hogwarts’, ‘learn more before speaking to us’, ‘stand up straighter, don’t slouch’, ‘be responsible and align with Dark supporters’, ‘you aren’t enough’, ‘you aren’t our descendant’.

“No matter what I did, I wasn’t good enough to hear what they had to say, wasn’t good enough to be given a single moment of their time. In the beginning, I just wanted someone to talk to, that was all. Growing up in the Manor, I was so _lonely_.” Draco scooted away as the vulnerability of the conversation got too much, but Potter moved with him, and he wasn’t sure if he was comforted by that or not. 

“Did they ever come around?”

Draco shook his head. “Not once, and I stopped trying after a while, when I realised that my father was just like them, that he learned from his father and so forth. They were the examples and my father was the by-product. Despite that, they fascinated me. Not who they were but _what_ they were.”

“Family?”

“Paintings,” Draco corrected as he looked at the half-finished paintings on his walls. “I wanted to know if they reflected the true person. Were they really that bitter while alive? How did the magic work? What was the paint made out of and how did it differ from the Muggle kind? Could I touch them? Could they recall all of their memories? Could a painting learn over time and _change_? What exactly was the process behind it all and could it be replicated?”

There was a small smile on Potter’s face and it distracted him completely.

“What?”

Potter shook his head. “Nothing, it’s just that your passion is admirable.”

A flush stained his cheeks, he could _feel_ it, but not only that, Potter’s grin grew wider in response and he hated his pale skin, hated that he was easily read.

“Did you ever answer all those questions?”

“Some of them,” Draco smirked when Potter narrowed his eyes. “Art will always be open to interpretation. What I discover in a piece won’t be the same as what you discover. Some of my questions are still unanswered, but that’s alright, that’s life. I’ll find out eventually, in my own time.”

“Sounds vague and wise at the same time.”

“I’d like to think that’s me all the time.”

“Maybe if you weren’t humble.”

“You think I’m humble?” Draco batted his eyelashes and couldn’t help but laugh when Potter shoved his shoulder lightly.

The silence that followed was comfortable and for once, he didn’t feel like changing it, didn’t feel like he had to speak up or go out of his way to make the air lighter. It was nice, not having to try so hard.

When the clock struck midnight and the damn thing started screeching, Potter jolted in surprise before a startled chuckle escaped.

“It’s Blaise’s,” he tried to explain. Merlin knows he wouldn’t have chosen something so gaudy for their business.

“It’s charming.”

 _You’re charming_ , Draco wanted to say but he was pretty sure Potter got the gist of what he didn’t say as their eyes locked and a hand rose to cup Draco’s cheek.

“Thank you for talking to me about your art.”

“Thank you for the memories.”

They continued to stare at each other and it was a contest of sorts, he wasn’t sure what the penalty for losing would be or even how one would go about winning. The hand on his cheek was warm, far warmer than Draco could remember being.

“I should go.” Potter didn’t sound like he wanted to go, and Draco wasn’t sure he wanted him to either.

“You can always come back?” The hope he had tried not to make obvious in his tone was there and he almost closed his eyes in defeat.

“I’d like that,” whispered Potter. “And maybe you’ll be at the next Exploding Snap night?”

Draco nodded the best he could with the hand still on his face. If Potter wanted him there, who was he to back out?

“Goodnight, Draco.” There was no warning before Potter placed a kiss to the tip of his nose and then to each cheek before he stepped back and out the door.

His heart raced and so did his breathing. Merlin, how could one person affect him so strongly? It wasn’t until he heard the front door to the shop close that he knew Potter was gone. Draco dropped back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling as a smile stretched his lips.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

\------------------------------------

Draco took a deep breath when it was time to go on to the next stage of the painting, he had reached the area where the earlier attempts had failed at, but this time the inspiration was still there, this time he could do it—he _had_ to.

He had just dipped his brush into ivory black when Blaise’s voice rang over the intercom.

“Amos Diggory just Flooed and said he’ll be in his office and you can stop by whenever you like.”

“Mhm,” he hummed in reply as he made sure to add more depth to Sirius’ clothes on the next downstroke.

“Is he wanting another portrait? He didn’t set up an appointment.”

“No.”

“Strange…” Blaise trailed off expectantly.

“Blaise,” Draco smirked as he traded his brush in for one dipped in white paint. “Just ask if you want to know.”

“What do you need to see Diggory for?”

“He owes me a favour and I need to collect.”

“Yeah,” Blaise drawled. “Because asking got me _so_ much.”

“Quit being nosy, I’ll tell you after it goes well.”

Mumbled swearing could be heard, and he was surprised to realise that perhaps they _didn’t_ have to shout for the intercom to work. Perhaps Hermione had been onto something.

“Are you almost done for the day? I don’t think Diggory will be at work for much longer.”

“I got the second layer of the grisaille done,” Draco pursed his lips. “It’ll take a few days to cure before I can do the next but it’s improvement.” Some artists, like Pierce, could do most of it in one step but Draco hadn’t ever mastered that and had to work in sections to make sure his proportions and final adjustments were lined up properly.

“Mhm.” The tone caused Draco to narrow his eyes, that sounded like a prelude to teasing and he wasn’t in the mood. “And did your muse strike? What fixed it?”

“Maybe I’m my own muse.”

Draco scowled when Blaise snorted so harshly that he _knew_ snot came out and was grateful he hadn’t been there to witness it.

“Potter helped.”

“I bet he did.”

“You are lucky I’m in my studio.”

“What else did Potter help with?”

“Goodbye Blaise.”

“Did he help you get laid because you—”

Draco jabbed the intercom and took a deep breath when only silence surrounded him. He loved Blaise, most days, but he was a lot to deal with. Besides, what did Blaise know? He didn’t need Potter to help him with anything else and _certainly_ not to get laid.

As he cleaned his brushes and put away his materials, he tried not to think of Potter, but that was hard, far harder than it should have been. Potter had a way of creeping up into his mind all the time and it wasn’t appreciated.

Draco wondered what Potter was doing, was he writing? Was he six books deep into research? Was he lonely?

But most of all, Draco wondered why he cared? Why did he care what Potter was doing and why couldn’t he stop thinking about him?

The sound of Blaise’s voice was heard the moment Draco left his studio and walked down the hall. “I’m telling you, it was rude. I just wanted the details.”

“If it helps any, Harry isn’t saying anything either.”

“Oi!” Draco yelled as he rounded the corner and frowned at Blaise, who was kneeling on the ground talking to Ron through the fireplace. “Quit gossiping about me, you are worse than Pansy.”

“Hey!”

He squinted when her voice rang out and let out a gasp at the realisation that they were on a group firecall.

“Sorry.” He wasn’t, and he knew she would know that.

“I’m sorry I ever missed you.”

Draco couldn’t stop the smile that spread as he walked closer and knelt next to Blaise.

“It’s nice that we are all talking, but does it have to be at my expense?”

“Well, if you ever _told_ us anything we wouldn’t have to gossip about you,” Blaise retorted with a haughty tone that irked Draco’s ire further.

“Maybe it was to prevent this,” he gestured towards the fireplace.

“Only, it didn’t prevent anything,” Ron argued. “We are still here and still talking about you behind your back.”

“Lovely friends you lot are.”

“We really are, aren’t we?” Pansy sighed, and it was fond in a way.

Draco rolled his eyes before he checked the time. “Not that listening to you talk about me isn’t nice, but I have places to be and need to use the Floo, so scram.”

“Rude.”

“No.”

“Oh, you mean with Diggory? Blaise mentioned you’d be seeing him,” Ron said as Draco sneered at Blaise.

“Do you just tell them everything?” Draco asked as he stood up and straightened his clothes. “I can’t tell you anything anymore.”

“You never do!” It was said with a laugh and he hated that he couldn’t ever be mad at Blaise. “You give me vague details or say nothing at all.”

“Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t gossip about me to them if I kept you updated.”

“I wouldn’t!” Blaise swore dramatically as he placed his hand over his heart. “They are only a means to an end.”

“Hey!” Pansy and Ron said in unison.

“I am the love of your life.”

“And I am your soulmate.”

“Excuse you,” Ron argued. “But _I_ am dating him.”

“A big cock does not measure up to the years I have known him. I was there when he was scrawny and going through puberty, that’s true friendship.”

Draco tuned out Pansy and Ron’s bickering to turn to Blaise. “Do you see what you caused?”

Blaise didn’t look at him, his eyes were on the fireplace and his lips were curved in a soft smile. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

“You’re such a sap,” Draco mumbled as he leaned over to wrap his arms around Blaise’s shoulders. “You can keep gossiping about me.”

“I was going to do it anyway.”

“I hate you.” He went to remove his hands, but Blaise was quick to hold them in place and they both watched their friends continue to argue.

“No you don’t.”

“Then I hate them.”

“No you don’t.”

Draco grumbled a bit before he let his silence admit his defeat. “Okay, you two shut up. I’m leaving now, and I have no qualms about ending the firecall mid-conversation.”

When they didn’t cease their bickering, Draco closed the Floo and sighed at the peaceful silence that followed.

“They are going to call back you know.”

“And you’ll be the one to deal with it. Karma.”

Draco threw in Floo powder as Blaise spluttered and when he stepped in, he stuck his tongue out at him as he was whisked away.

Floo travel was never his favourite, he preferred to Apparate even if the risks were higher. His stomach was weak when it came to Floo travel and it made him queasy. The best part about Flooing was when he stepped out and his feet touched solid ground.

“Draco!”

Amos was at his desk, eyes on a stack of paperwork, but it wasn’t him who spoke. He looked around and grinned when he saw Cedric’s painting on the wall.

“Cedric, it’s been too long.”

“You never visit me.”

“Sorry,” he apologised with a sheepish smile. “I’ll be sure to see you the next time I am at Hogwarts, I didn’t see you there when I last spoke with Severus.” The wall of remembrance for those who died in the war or at the hands of Voldemort always depressed him, so stopping by took a lot of energy, most of the time he had none to spare.

“That’s alright,” Cedric shrugged. “I know you are busy.” There was a pause before a slow teasing grin lit up his features. “How’s Harry?”

Amos’ head rose to stare at Draco curiously and he knew his face was flushed.

“I—what? Where have you heard—”

“Potter?” Amos asked before he gave Draco a slow okay sign that had him groaning in embarrassment.

“I don’t know who is gossiping with you,” Draco narrowed his eyes at Cedric. “But they are feeding you false information. Potter is just a… client.”

“That’s not what Harry says.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Potter visits you?”

“He told me he hadn’t realised I had been painted and apologised for not seeing me sooner.”

“He’s a bleeding heart.”

“Yeah,” Cedric grinned. “But I like that about him.”

“You’re a bleeding heart too.”

Cedric’s grin grew wider and Draco missed that, missed talking to his painting. Cedric had been a joy to paint and was one of his favourite pieces—they all were.

Amos cleared his throat and Draco waved to Cedric before he sat down and tried not to fidget. Amos had always been hard to read, he appeared rigid but that was just an illusion, especially if someone could get him to talk about Cedric.

“What can I do for you Draco? You said you needed a favour?”

“Do you still have sway in the Department for Education and School Safety?”

Amos leaned forward, and Draco knew he was intrigued. “Nadia was just made Department Head after Perry retired.”

“Nadia Morris?” Draco tried to recall if she had ever been vocal against him when he was hired to paint the majority of the portraits for the memorial in Hogwarts. Perry had lobbied against him but with Hermione’s help, it failed.

Amos nodded as he pulled out a spare parchment and a quill. “She owes me several favours. What is it you need?”

“I have a friend who writes books, history textbooks.”

“Mhm,” Amos mumbled as he began to write. Draco could see Nadia’s name addressed at the top.

“I have a publisher lined up when the next book is finished, but I need it approved by the Ministry to implement it into Hogwarts’ curriculum.” 

Amos looked up and the quill slipped, smearing ink along his fingers.

“You _are_ aware of the Education Reform that the Ministry put into effect, right? Teachers can only implement two books of their own choosing and the rest must be Ministry approved to prevent inadequate teachers, like Lockhart, from providing the students with nonsense.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then you are also aware of how difficult it is to change approved textbooks?”

“I’m aware.”

Amos pinched the bridge of his nose before he peered at Draco intently.

“Give me more,” he said, a hand gesturing between them. “I can’t go to Nadia with nothing.”

“These books tell the _real_ history, Amos. Not the washed down trifle the Ministry propagates to us, not the history that makes _them_ look good. Books are meant to teach people, and these will.”

When Amos narrowed his eyes, Draco didn’t fidget, he didn’t squirm, he was serious, and he wanted Amos to _recognise_ that. 

“Who writes them?”

“I can’t provide that yet.”

“Then what do you expect me to do?”

Draco leaned forward. “I just want you to plant the seed. Spread the idea to Nadia that there _is_ an alternative out there. And when I come back next time, I’ll have the published version.”

They stared at each other for a long time before Amos looked behind him towards Cedric. Draco wasn’t sure if he just wanted support, or if Cedric helped in the decision process.

“Alright,” Amos said after some time. “I’ll let her know, but I can’t guarantee she’ll do anything let alone _care._ ”

It was enough. “Thank you,” he said as he stood up and extended his hand. “It means a lot to me.”

“I know.”

Strangely enough, it seemed that he did know, or at least understand. Draco wasn’t sure how far that went, and he had to wonder if Amos would’ve been more supportive had he known Potter was the author.

His life would be easier if Potter wasn’t so difficult, but as Draco said his goodbyes and Flooed home, he realised his life had _never_ been easy and who was to say it would ever start?

Maybe Potter’s difficult was something he could get behind.

\--

Late. He knew he was late, but that couldn’t have been helped, not when he had been in the zone. Sirius’ painting was getting closer to completion. The grisaille had been completed and the colours set in translucent glaze before application. It was only a small build-up; the grisaille was still visible, but he couldn’t add a build-up for colours just yet.

Before Blaise left— _hours ago_ —he had reminded Draco that Potter was the host for Exploding Snap night. Which was weird in itself. Blaise and Ron _always_ hosted Exploding Snap night. It was a time-honoured ritual. Going somewhere else felt wrong.

As Draco stepped out of the fire and noticed Potter’s still bland flat, he couldn’t help but miss Blaise’s place. That felt like home, this didn’t.

“Sorry I’m late,” Draco called when he couldn’t see anyone. “I came over as soon as I could.”

“That’s okay,” Potter said as he walked down the hallway with a book in his hands. “Gave me time to finish some last-minute research.”

Draco tried not to let his eyes wander but it was hard when Potter was dressed in black joggers and an oversized white hooded jumper. The look would normally have been considered lazy, but Potter looked comfy, and _soft_. When he looked up and noticed Potter’s eyes on him, he wondered if he had been caught looking.

“You have some paint,” Potter whispered as his fingers came up to rest against Draco’s cheek. “Just right here.”

“Oh.” His face felt hot, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the embarrassment or if it was Potter’s proximity.

“Sorry, sometimes I don’t notice.” Lie, he never noticed til he showered at night, but Potter didn’t need to _know_ that.

“That’s endearing.”

 _You’re endearing_ , his mind supplied before he moved out of Potter’s reach and looked around the room.

“Where’s Ron and Blaise?”

“Blaise Flooed a half hour ago and said they couldn’t make it. Something about you working him too hard and he’s too tired to do anything.”

“Bullshit.”

“I—what?” Potter said it politely, but his forehead was pinched, and his eyes were narrowed.

“Blaise left at lunch, said he didn’t feel good and was going to have Ron look over his vitals.”

“Oh,” Potter frowned, and his forehead pinched _deeper_. “Then why lie? He could have just said he didn’t want to do Exploding Snap night. He was the one to ask if it could be done here.”

Draco groaned before he collapsed on the uncomfortable chair that Potter _needed_ to get rid of.

“Because he didn’t plan on showing up. He made it seem like his stomach issues were nothing to worry about but that he wanted to be safe. I just figured he wanted the rest of the day off, you know? He’s lazy like that.”

Potter snorted before he sat down next to Draco instead of on the sofa like he had done last time, and the closeness was almost _too_ much.

“What do you think they are trying to say?”

“They?” Draco arched a brow.

“Ron told me steak and kidney pie was your favourite, so I made that for dinner.”

“Oh.” Draco positively melted. “Thank you.”

“I might have made too much.” Potter clearly didn’t want the gratitude and it was endearing.

“That’s okay.” Potter was staring at him, and he couldn’t help but stare back, couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Blaise and Ron had a point.

When Potter leaned forward, the breath left Draco in a whoosh, but Potter paused inches away from his face to say, “You have paint on your nose too.”

 _“What?”_ Why didn’t you say something the first time?” Draco rubbed at his nose in the hopes that it would come clean. He didn’t have a compact mirror on him and didn’t trust himself to use his wand blindly.

“It’s kind of cute.”

Ugh. Draco scratched at the tip of his nose harder when he felt little flakes come off.

“Don’t do that,” Potter chided as he grabbed hold of Draco’s wrist and held onto it. “Your nose is all red now.”

With a gentle touch, far gentler than he was used to, Potter lightly scratched Draco’s nose.

“Do I look okay?”

“A bit like Rudolph, but far cuter.”

“Rudolph?” Was that someone in the Ministry? “They have a red nose too? Like a Muggle clown.”

“You don’t look like a clown.”

There was a smile in Potter’s eyes and that was the only reason he didn’t curse him.

“Small miracles then.”

“Not just anyone can pull off dried paint.”

“Maybe I should start my own fashion line,” Draco mumbled. “Chokers are last season and paint stains are the _in_ thing.”

Potter offered a hand as he stood up and Draco took it a little cautiously. Whatever was to happen would change things, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

“I think you could pull off a choker too.”

Draco hadn’t worn a choker since his late teens and that wasn’t a look he wanted to revisit, some things deserved to go out of fashion.

When they walked into the kitchen, the food had already been plated and a Warming Charm had been placed over them.

“Thank you for this, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Potter promised and for whatever reason, his eyes were on Draco’s and there was an intensity there that he didn’t get.

As they ate, he couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t any Exploding Snap cards lying around and there hadn’t been any in the living room either.

“I’ve been a little curious about something, but wanted to ask you instead of researching it,” Potter said a little hesitantly. “I’m not that knowledgeable in the subject and I wouldn’t have done it justice.”

“Go head.” His interest had been piqued the moment Potter shifted in his seat.

“It might sound stupid.”

“It’s you, Potter, I’ve come to expect that,” Draco teased, a small smile morphing into a grin when he received a glare in return.

“I don’t actually know how magical paintings began? Or how they work. I know of them but… no one’s ever told me the beginning creation.”

Draco sat up straighter as he began to eat, it wasn’t often people wanted to _learn_ from him, let alone when it was about art.

“Paintings actually began as traps. It was a way to observe one’s enemy without them knowing. In the beginning it was a mixture of illusions combined with the paintings. The art wasn’t complete, but the illusions made it appear so, which meant less work for them but shoddy spellcasting in the long run.”

“How so?”

“Illusions fade over time just as any magic will eventually, but an illusion is designed to make you see what’s not there. That requires more magic and if it’s not routinely applied it slowly disappears. Take that into consideration when it’s applied to incomplete paintings.”

Potter’s lips pursed into a frown. “Does that matter? Whether it’s complete or not?”

“Magic must be applied to a painting to make it activate. Without it, the paintings wouldn’t move, talk or interact with other people. Apply too much magic and the painting warps, apply too little and nothing happens.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is,” Draco shrugged. “It’s something that takes practise. When people first realised that illusions harmed paintings, they moved onto portraits because then there was no need for an illusion. It took decades before any real improvement was done and that was _before_ wizards realised that portraits could remain after the person was deceased. There were a lot of problems due to the artist implementing only their magic into the portraits and _none_ of the recipient. Which led to disasters after the recipient died.”

“What happened to them? Did the paintings start to look like the artist?”

“That’s not a bad thought process,” Draco mused. “In a magical sense, yes, but physically no. The magic can’t change what has been painted, it can only enhance what is put into it. With the artist implementing _only_ their magic, it led to a corruption and caused an imbalance. The magic did not fit what was painted and therefore couldn’t last long. Some paintings combusted, others just withered away after a while.”

Potter leaned away as he pushed his unfinished plate forward. “Does that kind of thing still happen? Where the paintings do that?”

“Absolutely. Beginners who are too eager to learn, those that think they know what they are doing but don’t and even seasoned professionals who don’t pay attention. Mistakes happen, and the beauty of art is that you can just do it again. Either start over or fix what you have and make it work. There’s always a solution.”

“I like that,” murmured Potter as his eyes looked at his hands. “The finality and security to it.”

That was one way to look at it. Draco hadn’t ever considered security in his methods before.

“Are there any older paintings still around? From when they were still figuring things out?”

“Some, but they are in stasis charms and not viewable to the public. They are quite unstable and who knows what could happen if they came in contact with a magical core.”

Potter’s brows furrowed, and his eyes squinted. “Why the emphasis on a core?”

“Because elemental magic was used back then.”

A low whistle left Potter as he sat back in surprise. “No wonder they combusted. When I wanted to be an Auror, I saw a trainee try to summon elemental magic out of the ground.”

" _What?_ " Draco asked, his tone aghast as he pushed his food away too. “Did he die? I can’t imagine he lived when the warring magic made contact.”

“Our captain at the time managed to put up a shield.”

“Still,” Draco pressed. “A shield in itself would react to the elemental magic. I imagine an explosion of some kind happened.”

“It did,” Potter shook his head as his lips curled in a wry smile. “But not as bad as it could have been.”

“What happened to the trainee?”

“Still in St Mungo’s last I heard.”

Merlin. He wasn’t surprised, but that _had_ to have been quite the example for the other students.

“The number of dropouts increased 10% after the accident.”

Draco snorted. “I bet.”

“Is that what made you want to be a writer?”

He could tell he had asked the wrong thing because Potter’s fist clenched, and he looked away.

“No.”

The silence that followed was stifling and it made him uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure how to change it. That was the exact reason he didn’t like social interactions, the pressure to say the right things was always too high.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” But it clearly wasn’t if Potter’s tone was any indication. Draco wished Ron and Blaise had come, they would have been great interference.

The silence grew awkward and Draco’s fingers tapped against the table. His mother would cringe, but he couldn’t help it.

Potter took a deep breath before he zoned in on Draco’s hands.

“I became a writer because—”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do.” It was whispered and barely heard. “For me.”

Potter waited until Draco nodded before he continued.

“I became a writer because I wanted to educate people. No matter what I did as an Auror, there were still ignorant criminals committing crimes and using baseless excuses as their morals— _especially_ after the war.”

“How so?”

“Before the war Muggles, Muggle-borns, half-bloods and purebloods who stood up for Muggle-born rights were the target of 80% of the hate crimes committed. After the war, hate crimes increased by 40%, only they were no longer the targets. The ones attacked were those _suspected_ of being a Dark Wizard. It didn’t matter if there was proof, it didn’t matter if there was any kind of precedent. And do you know what was given as a reason for it?”

“I can imagine,” he whispered, and he could. Life after the war wasn’t pleasant for anyone, no matter which side. But for those on the wrong side, life was hell. A deserved hell, but hell nonetheless.

“I was told that they deserved it, that they didn’t deserve to live, that they didn’t deserve to walk free.” Potter shook his head, mouth curled downward and his fists still clenched. “I’m not even talking about Death Eaters or those suspected to have been one. I’m talking people who they _thought_ looked Dark or had family who was. They were vilifying people with no cause or correlation, and that’s not okay.”

It didn’t surprise him. He saw the sneers, the way people _still_ walked on the other side of the street when they saw him, saw how he was charged extra or given less for his money in shops. He had never been attacked, but Draco wondered if that was _because_ he had been a Death Eater. Perhaps that made people pause.

“And my co-workers,” Potter continued with a disgusted snarl. “They didn’t care. The hypocrisy astounded me. The war had just happened, and I get that, but to then turn on people and start a witch hunt isn’t justice. That’s not how a society should move on. That’s how you start the cycle over again. And don’t even get me started on the corruption _inside_ the Ministry.”

“When people give the power over them to a select group to then make decisions, it will _never_ be in their favour. Government, no matter whose it is, will be corrupt. Because those in power do what they can to _stay_ in power,” Draco said with a shrug. His father taught him that by example.

Potter’s eyes looked up quickly and focussed on him instead of his hands.

“I have _seen_ it. Shacklebolt might be a great Minister but the Minister is a figurehead. Rich men in power are the problem. _Entitled rich men_ in power are the problem. We hold elections for select positions but those are funded by the very people who already have the power, how is that not corrupt? Society is fed lies and we are expected to buy into it. Politicians tell us one thing and then don’t follow through with it. They argue with their opponents with more energy than they ever put into legislations or acts. And who ends up benefitting? Other rich entitled people in power.”

“Yeah,” Potter said quietly. “That’s it. It’s worse when you can see it first-hand. The war is one aspect of the problem, but people expect everything to bounce back with no added measures. They expect the example to be enough, but it’s not. Things have to change or else nothing will change and at some point, another Voldemort will rise. It’s been proven time after time that those who have the will, will find a way. Instead of the Ministry taking action, they do nothing but put on a smile and call it a day.”

“Your morals wouldn’t let you work for them.”

“I tried,” Potter huffed. “So many people expected me to become an Auror. I was given the title with minimum effort and I felt lacking. Killing Voldemort should _not_ be the highlight of my resume, it should _not_ be on there at all. But that’s all people see when they look at me. As if _I_ wanted to be the one to do it, as if _I_ chose to be his target. I didn’t choose any of that but am celebrated regardless. I hate it. I am sick of being seen as Harry Potter and _never_ Harry.”

It made sense. The pseudonym that Potter worked under made sense. A decade after the war and people still talked about Potter, still made weekly mentions in the papers. If the world knew of his books, Draco knew that no matter the content, it would have spread rapidly—and anyone else might have ridden that, taken and gone, but not Potter and his morality. No, Potter wanted it the right way, and as stupid as Draco still thought it was, he could respect it.

“I’ve never seen you as either, to be honest,” Draco drawled, hoping it would at least get Potter’s fists to relax.

Potter’s lip curled briefly before it remained neutral. “That’s comforting in a way.”

“Is it?” His brows arched, and he hated that he was curious. “I never saw you on the shining pedestal or the person underneath, not sure how that’s comforting.”

“When everyone likes you for the wrong reasons, it can be interesting to find the opposite. I don’t like being hated, don’t like being judged, but it’s a changeup. Breaks up the monotony.” 

“What a peculiar silver lining,” Draco mused. “Is that why you like that I yelled at you?”

Potter smiled for real that time, and it made the apple of his cheeks stand out. “You make things interesting, that’s for sure.”

Interesting was a win, he’d take it.

“Do you like being a writer?” Draco asked when a comfortable silence had settled. The mood was far better than before, and he wanted it to continue.

“On the days I actually sleep more than 5 hours, yes. I like working at my own pace, and I like doing something that _I_ want to. Research is the bane of my existence but I’m good at it, I’m good at what I do, and I just want that to be seen. I want to educate people, give them reasons to be better. If we can’t learn from the past, then what’s the point?”

“You’d make a great teacher.”

A wry smile was seen as Potter looked up at him through his lashes. “I’ve been told that before.”

“You disagree?”

“I’m not good with people.”

 _That,_ Draco could relate to. “I call bullshit.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “I can produce results, but I’d rather not. I like being alone, I like having to worry about only myself for a change. I don’t want to be responsible for students. I just want to give people the tools to learn for themselves. Maybe I can just teach that way.”

“I find you interesting,” Draco retorted as he placed his chin on his palm. “You aren’t like anyone I have ever met.”

“I could say the same about you.”

Draco wasn’t sure it was the same compliment in meaning as it had been for Potter. Typically, no one _liked_ meeting him unless it was because he could do something for them.

“Do you want to go back to the living room?” There was _something_ in the tone, but Draco couldn’t tell what it was, not when Potter’s eyes were so open. It was as if he was trying to say something else, but it was lost on him. He couldn’t help but agree, couldn’t help but want to see where it would take them.

Once Potter had cleared the table and they were in the living room, Draco relaxed. Perhaps Potter’s bland home was comfortable after all. He looked around the room and tried to resist the urge to comment on the styling choices. When his eyes landed on a book on the end of the couch, his curiosity was too high to ignore.

There was no name on the spine and the cover itself was basic and dull. Before he could open it the books was snatched from his hands and the edge gave him a paper cut.

“Ow.” Draco glared at Potter as he pulled out his wand to clean it, but before he could Potter’s hand reached out and gently pulled it forward.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as his eyes were on Draco’s cut that now oozed a droplet of blood.

“If you put my finger in your mouth, I will hex you, that’s _revolting_.”

Potter looked up at Draco as he leaned forward and placed a small kiss to the lower part of his thumb, below the cut. It wasn’t until Potter mouthed something against Draco’s finger that he felt a surge of magic on his skin and he saw the cut close and the blood disappeared.

“Show off,” Draco chided but the last word came out stuttered when Potter pressed another kiss to his hand before retreating.

Draco’s hand fell limply in his lap as he stared at Potter, unsure of _why_ Potter had done that.

“Perhaps,” Potter shrugged, a small rueful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “But maybe I want to show off for you.”

“And what makes you think I like that kind of thing?”

“You’re here aren’t you?”

“Under false pretences.”

The laughter that rang out was loud and free, and the sound was so similar to Ron’s but yet so different. It made him wish his own wasn’t as reserved in comparison.

“If you had known they would flake on us, you’re telling me you wouldn’t have come?”

“I don’t know,” Draco mumbled as he thought about it. If he had been told while he was still in his studio that Blaise and Ron weren’t going to go, then he might have just continued to work.

But… the idea of it being only Potter _would_ have appealed to him too.

“Maybe I would have.”

“I’ll take a maybe.”

Draco wasn’t sure what they were doing, wasn’t sure where it would lead or if he _wanted_ it to. Potter was a distraction, he was something that Draco didn’t need, but did that affect his wants? As he stared into Potter’s eyes, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore, did he want to keep going as it was or did he want to change things up? His life was the same, despite doing what he loved, he couldn’t help but wonder what else was out there. Was happiness only derived from work? Was another person supposed to provide happiness? Where did the lines blur and what did it even mean?

“Tell me more about painting,” Potter prompted when Draco settled further into the sofa and tilted to the side until he was looking at Potter head-on. The space between them was so little, he could feel the heat from Potter’s body and it was heady in a way.

“Like what?” It was charming how curious Potter was about his work and Draco liked the attention, it was nice.

“What is a portrait, really? What makes who you paint really them? Are they essentially the person inside and how is it that they retain memories?”

The enthusiasm caused Draco to smile softly. “A portrait will never be exactly what the person was when alive, there’s no way to ensure that _everything_ was captured, it’s not possible.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“To get back what you’ll never see again. Even if it’s only partially, even if it’s just a glimpse.”

Potter swallowed thickly, and Draco placed his hand on Potter’s thigh in what he _hoped_ was a comforting gesture.

“Death is forever, and memories can bring more pain than comfort, but the appeal of being able to talk to someone who has died is astronomical. In most cases, the portraits help bring closure. It’s so easy to be told that you’ll see a loved one again, that it’s not the end of the road, but that’s _so_ hard to believe. With a portrait, you see the result, and you get to experience more time with them.”

Personally, Draco had never experienced that. He would’ve rather never seen his father as a portrait, would’ve rather gone on with that as a bitter memory instead of a constant reminder.

“In most cases?” Potter wondered curiously if not a touch quietly.

“Can you ever truly let go if they are with you?” Draco retorted as he tried to remove his hand, but Potter placed his own on top. “Can you move on if the reminder of the presence is in your home? The grieving process can be affected if a painting is done too quickly. They will remain in the denial stage and that is dangerous.”

“Have you ever had to turn anyone down because it was too soon?”

“Loads of times.” He looked down at his hand when Potter entwined their fingers. Draco glanced up but frowned when Potter wasn’t even looking at him.

“How did they take it?”

“Badly,” Draco laughed somewhat hollowly as he recalled the anger, tears and on some occasions, bribes. “Death affects people so harshly, and I can understand the need to see them again, but not at the risk of their mental health.”

“And you get to decide what’s best for their mental health?”

The question was hostile, but his tone wasn’t, and Draco wasn’t sure if he should’ve been offended. “If they are coming to _me_ to be their artist, then yes, it’s at _my_ discretion for what I do.”

“Sometimes, time doesn’t help anything. Sometimes, they can still be just as affected years down the road.”

“I know.” And he did, he wasn’t a professional for no reason. “I’m not new at this, Potter. I know when someone can’t handle it, I know when it’s in my best interest to deny them.”

“And what of you?” Potter’s grip on his hand tightened minutely. “Who tells you what’s in your best interest.”

“No one.”

A noncommittal noise left Potter, and Draco wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was Potter calling him out? Was he saying that Draco had overstepped when doing Sirius’ portrait? The longer he stared, the more he just didn’t _understand_ Potter. 

“What of my other questions?” Potter prompted, tone brighter than it was before and the hold on Draco’s hand relaxed. The dichotomy was almost too much. The different moods were a lot for him to handle and it reminded him of his father, an uneasy comparison.

“When I gather resources for the subject, I look at a lot of different things. Memories, anecdotes from friends, family and enemies. I try and find magical residue from the deceased which in some cases can be very difficult.”

“Does the magic matter?”

“Absolutely,” Draco said with a huff. “Our magical cores are what defines our magic, it is the essence of who we are. I will never be able to guarantee an exact depiction of someone, but if I have no magical residue _at all_ , then the percentage of accuracy goes down drastically.”

“They might not be the same person?” Potter’s brows were furrowed, and it was clear he didn’t understand, but Draco wasn’t sure he could explain it well. Not when so much of painting was up to interpretation to begin with, not when magic couldn’t be controlled fully, not when a lot of it was professional guesswork.

“Theoretically, no.”

‘Theoretically’, Potter mouthed as his thumb rubbed circles into Draco’s hand.

“It would be a guess of what I _think_ that person was. It would be similar to if I only took in hearsay regarding the subject. I can’t accurately depict someone’s personality solely based on what _other_ people say. That would be stupid and would only create a false image with that person’s face.”

“Is that why there aren’t many painters who paint those who have died?”

Draco nodded his head, but his eyes were still on their entwined fingers. “The worst thing that an artist could do is to paint a false image of someone’s loved one. Most wizards get portraits done while alive for that very reason. It’s so easy to paint someone when they are right there, so easy to see who they are, so easy to get their magic correctly. But—” He cut off with a frustrated huff.

“But what?” Potter prompted as he leaned forward. Up close, Potter’s imperfections were just as pretty as his perfections.

“I don’t want easy,” he admitted. “I can do all of that with my eyes closed and my magic restricted. I _like_ the challenge of what I do. It’s not easy at times, and especially the longer the years pass that the person has died, but that’s what thrills me about it the most.”

“How Gryffindor of you.”

“Bite your tongue,” admonished Draco. “There will be no correlation between me and your wretched House.”

“Is that so?” It was taunt, that much he could tell but as Potter drew closer, Draco lost the ability to care. What did it matter if the snappy retort died on his tongue as long as Potter’s face loomed closer to his own?

“What about me?” asked Potter as he blinked slowly, far too slowly for it to not have been dramatics. “I’m a Gryffindor, will there be no correlation between us?”

“I think you’ve confused correlation and copulation.”

Potter’s lips quivered, and he _knew_ the wanker was amused.

“Have I?” The minimal space between them decreased and Potter’s lips were just a breath away. “Will we be copulating then?”

“Who even says that anymore?”

“But—” Potter frowned as the hand that had been on his own reached up to place a stray strand of Draco’s hair behind his ear. “ _You_ were the one to say it.”

The intimate gesture _would_ have taken his breath away if their closeness hadn’t already.

“What are we doing?” Draco wondered as Potter licked his lips, garnering full attention.

“Whatever we want.”

“And what do you want?” More importantly, Draco wasn’t sure he knew what he wanted. Potter was every reason to walk away but also every reason to stay.

Potter’s eyes travelled Draco’s face before hands cupped his cheeks and he had to fight the urge to nuzzle into the warmth.

“I want you.” His eyes closed as the warmth spread and Draco revelled in it. He wasn’t sure where it would take them, or _if_ it would take them anywhere. If all he could have was one night with Potter, then he’d take it. That in itself would be just as much of a masterpiece as his paintings.

Typically, he wouldn’t have bothered with Potter if it had been a normal client. But Potter wasn’t his client, and Draco didn’t care. He wanted him, wanted Potter unlike anything he had before.

“You can have me,” he breathed and watched the way Potter’s eyes grew heavy-lidded before looking down towards his lips.

When Potter tilted his head and their lips pressed together, Draco expected it to go deeper, but there was no pressure, just a feather light touch.

“You can have me too,” Potter mumbled against Draco’s lips. “All of me.”

Draco couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the wait or the suspense. The whispered words were nice, and they surely went straight to his cock—it wasn’t every day Potter of all people willingly offered himself—but they weren’t enough, they weren’t what he wanted. More, Draco wanted _more_.

His hand gripped the back of Potter’s neck as he pulled Potter on top of him and pressed his lips against Potter’s firmly and in a _real_ kiss.

When Potter made a muffled noise, Draco gripped harder, wanting to hear it again. As their lips moved and his thought process went out the window, Draco ran his free hand along Potter’s back and wished clothes weren’t in the way.

Potter pulled back only to watch Draco. He wasn’t sure what was there, but the groan Potter released was enough proof that whatever was seen, was worth it.

“Don’t stop,” said Draco, the words tumbling freely as he ran his fingers along Potter’s collarbone before moving on to his shoulders underneath his shirt. “Don’t stop kissing me.”

Another groan could be heard, and it was addicting, Draco was positive he’d never forget the deep quality or the way it made him shiver.

The more they kissed, the more he realised that it wasn’t just Potter’s groan that was addicting, it was _everything_. Every time they made skin contact, he was sure an indentation was made, was sure he’d always remember the caresses, was sure each kiss was seared into his brain.

“I could kiss you forever.”

“Don’t offer what you can’t promise,” Draco whispered as Potter sucked a mark into his neck. He wanted to say more, wanted to demand more but with each swipe of a tongue against his skin the further his mind slipped and all that remained was Potter—just Potter.

“Can I Vanish your clothes” Potter murmured into his ear before he bit down gently on his earlobe.

“Fuck,” Draco swore, and he had to dig his nails into his palms to regain some kind of control over his mind. “As long as you bring them back, I don’t care what you do to them.”

There was no whispered spell, no swish of a wand, just the feel of magic against his skin and they were both left bare. All that remained on Draco was the holster wrapped around his arm and his wand still secured inside.

A hand gripped Draco’s wrist when he went to undo the straps of the holster.

“Leave it.”

By the way Potter’s eyes remained fixated on the holster, Draco assumed Potter had an interesting kink, one he’d like to explore another time.

There was no holster on Potter and no wand in sight. Did Potter only ever do wandless magic? The thought shouldn’t arouse him, but it did. The power in such a bold move thrilled him almost as much as his work did.

Potter looked fit in his regular clothes, but it was nothing compared to him nude. Strength, that’s what Draco could see. Strength in the way Potter held himself, strength in his biceps, his legs and definitely his chest—his toned, sculpted chest with a light dusting of hair. _Merlin_ Potter was fit.

But what drew his attention the most was Potter’s hair. It was tied in a bun and he wanted to undo it, wanted to run his fingers through the strands and find out what they felt like if he _pulled_ hard enough. So, he reached up a hand and paused mid-air when Potter arched a brow.

“Can I?”

There was no answer as Potter grabbed Draco’s hand and placed it on his head. There was something sexy about having been guided instead of allowed, and he wanted _more_. What was it about Potter that made him insatiable?

As the band fell and Potter’s hair fell loosely down to his shoulders, Draco couldn’t help but run his fingers through it. The strands weren’t as thick as they looked, but they were wavy, the unkempt nature it had been in their youth hadn’t been tamed but the length mellowed it out some, and he was captivated.

Everything about Potter captivated him.

“Interesting that you like my hair.”

“Hm?” His fingers were still locked in Potter’s hair and he didn’t want to stop.

“I don’t give my hair much thought, never did. But your hair intrigues me.”

Draco’s hands stilled as he looked at Potter curiously. It was hard not to look down or revel in the naked glory that Potter was, but he resisted.

“How so?”

Potter pulled both of Draco’s hands towards his face before he pressed a kiss to each palm. The intimacy made his heart skip a beat.

“It’s not long but it’s free in a way you never were at school.”

Draco swallowed thickly, torn from being reminded of who he once was and proud of how far he had come. His hair had been as rigid as his father’s beliefs and the first time his hair had been lax was in Azkaban, but he didn’t want to talk about that, didn’t want to think about it. Not when he was naked and certainly not before they had a chance to explore anything.

“Maybe I like being free.”

A tug on his hands drew Draco closer and he placed his knees on either side of Potter’s hips before he sat down on his lap. He could feel Potter’s soft cock and coarse pubic hair underneath his arse and the knowledge of how it would change made him want to grind down.

“You were always meant to be free.”

It was serious, far too serious for the mood Draco wanted so he ignored Potter’s words and instead pressed kisses to Potter’s jaw. He nipped the skin and revelled in the way Potter’s cock twitched.

“You’re beautiful,” Draco mumbled between pecks as he pressed a kiss to Potter’s cheeks, then his forehead, eyelids and then finally his lips.

“So are you.”

“I know.”

A huff of laughter against his lips caused a smile to grow and it was mirrored in Potter’s eyes.

“I’ve thought about this.”

“Have you?” His brows arched, and Draco couldn’t exactly say he had never thought about it, but he hadn’t sought out thoughts of Potter, not when his work had heavily been on his mind.

“What did you think about?” Draco asked as he moved his arse purposefully and watched Potter’s eyelids flutter.

The way Potter’s hands gripped Draco tightly almost made him want to glance up but he continued to place open-mouthed kisses along Potter’s face.

“You, just you. The way you’d feel wrapped around me, whether it was your mouth, your arse or your legs around my waist.”

His eyes closed, and he had to pause as Potter’s hands moved lower til they cupped his arse. His cock began to fill and part of him wanted to stroke himself to full hardness or wait for Potter’s words to do it on their own.

“I thought about the opposite too,” Potter continued. “Thought about what it would feel like to have you inside me. Thought about blowing you until you couldn’t think, thought about how you’d sound with my tongue up your arse.”

“Fuck,” he panted, unable to keep his eyes closed as he peered at Potter, wanting more, always wanting more.

“What did you want the most?”

It wasn’t quite a leer that he got in response, but it was close. “I want you in any way, Draco.”

The shudder that went through him at the use of his first name did not go unnoticed. Potter smiled softly, almost _too_ softly for his liking.

“What do you want?”

That was a good question. What did Draco want? He wanted to get off, that much was obvious, he wanted Potter to not be such a sap, but what he wanted the most was to watch Potter’s face when he climaxed. That would be a memory to remember.

“I want your mouth on me.” He paused when Potter’s hands started to knead his arse cheeks. “On my body, my cock, my arse.”

“I can do that.” Part of it came out as a moan and fuck it all if Draco didn’t want to kiss Potter senseless.

When Potter tried to move, Draco wiggled his arse again. “But I want you to get something out of it too.”

There was a brief pause as Potter frowned at him before it mellowed into a slight curve of his lips. “Think you can keep up?”

The challenging tone caused him to roll his eyes. Leave it to a Gryffindor to turn sex into a challenge. Not that he was going to _lose_.

“Always.”

Baiting Potter had always been his favourite thing in his youth, and while that was still true, teasing him was better. Draco slid slowly, so slowly down Potter’s body til he was kneeling, hands pressed against firm thighs.

“That’s not quite what I expected.”

“Do I ever do what you expect?” mumbled Draco as he placed open-mouthed kisses to Potter’s kneecaps as he used his hands to spread them apart.

“No,” Potter breathed, the sound almost breathless when he bypassed the half-hard cock in his face and instead chose to mouth along Potter’s balls.

“Fuck.”

Potter had never been good at keeping his emotions in check, not really, but Draco revelled in it—especially when it was in the form of deep groans and a hand in his hair.

“Don’t—”

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off as Draco gently rolled Potter’s balls and closed his eyes.

“Don’t what?” mocked Draco as he widened his eyes and his tongue poked out _just_ enough that it wouldn’t seem intentional.

Potter narrowed his eyes and gripped his hair tighter. A low moan left Draco’s lips at the contact. _Fuck_.

“Oh, you like that.”

It wasn’t a question but there was one in his eyes and Draco refused to answer it. The hand in his hair tightened and he couldn’t help the moan that slipped, nor could he help the way his body shuddered as Potter guided him forward.

The hold on his head didn’t let up, but he didn’t _want_ it to. He refused to look at Potter as he gripped the now hard cock with one of his hands and wrapped his mouth around the tip, only the tip. It wasn’t until he swirled the head several times that Potter grew impatient enough to urge Draco to do more.

Power over the impatient would win out.

Halfway, that’s all he allowed himself to go before he moved back up to the tip and swirled his tongue.

_“Draco.”_

It was a demand, oh was it ever, but Draco ignored him, ignored what Potter wanted. “You may control my position,” he mumbled, mouth pressed against the slit. “But I control the pace.”

“Look at me.”

Another demand, but Draco had never listened to Potter before, and he certainly wasn’t going to begin anytime soon. He ran his tongue along the underside of Potter’s cock and felt the bitter tang of precome in his mouth.

“Look at me.”

Draco’s free hand lowered to Potter’s balls and gently rolled them before he lowered his mouth once more. His gag reflex was strong, stronger than he’d care to admit, but years of sucking dick hadn’t mellowed it any, so he took his time, took in Potter’s cock as he relaxed his throat the best he could.

“Look at me.”

It wasn’t desperate enough, wasn’t breathy nor was it a groan, so he ignored it. If Potter wanted it bad enough, he’d do something about it. With each bob of his head he made sure to stroke upward, wanted to make up for the lack of deepthroating.

“Look at me, _please._ ”

There it was. The breathy tone sent shivers down his spine as he glanced up and they made eye contact. Potter groaned before he threw his head back and the grip on Draco’s hair tightened further. Was Potter close?

“You’re unreal, a wet dream.”

Part of him was flattered, but the ramblings were proof that he wasn’t doing enough if nonsense came out. Draco renewed his efforts and increased the pace and pressure of his grip.

“Fuck, just like that.”

The praise was nice, but he wanted more, needed more. Praise wasn’t an orgasm and he _needed_ to see Potter orgasm, wanted to know that _he_ was the cause, wanted to see the aftereffects, wanted to know that it was his mouth that did it.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

Less of a demand and more of a request, the _only_ reason he continued to stare, even if Potter’s eyes were still closed and his head was still tilted back.

“I can feel them on me,” Potter whispered as he sucked in a harsh breath when Draco hollowed his cheeks. “I can feel your eyes on me.”

“Yeah,” he half gasped as he pulled off and his hand continued to stroke Potter’s cock. “You like me staring? Do you like the attention?”

“From you? Yes.” The last word was stuttered as Potter arched. “ _Yes_ —I—right, please.”

He had wanted Potter to finish in his mouth, but the more he watched Potter writhe, the more he realised how beautiful it was. Potter was just as beautiful as the portraits he paints, just as stunning as the finished products. He couldn’t paint this moment, but he could be the subject of Potter’s paint, even if for only a moment.

With both hands now on Potter’s cock, he lowered his mouth once more but only swirled his tongue, didn’t dare go further.

When Potter came it wasn’t loud, it was a moan or even a groan, it was mild but not quiet. It was as if he breathed out and was at peace. But he came with Draco’s name on his lips, eyes closed, his hand still buried in hair and his come on Draco’s face.

“Merlin,” Potter croaked when he opened his eyes and blinked down at Draco, who was still crouched between his legs.

“Mmm.” Draco licked his lips and watched Potter swallow in response. It was so _easy_ to bait him, so easy to tease and he couldn’t get enough—Potter was dangerous in how addicting he was.

“I thought you wanted a different position,” Potter asked with a hum as his nails lightly scratched Draco’s scalp. “I thought it was going to be a competition.”

“Oh, it was.”

“But—” Potter frowned as his brows merged harshly.

“You lost before it began,” he whispered as he ran a finger through the come on his cheek and placed it in his mouth. Not the best taste, but the way Potter’s eyes homed in on his mouth was worth it.

“You play dirty.”

“You should’ve expected that. When one loses sight of the goal due to distractions, then they lose far more than the wager.”

Potter moved til he was on his back, knees extended upwards. “And what was the wager? I don’t remember there being one.”

“There’s always a wager in a challenge, Potter.”

“Harry, call me Harry.”

Another intimacy. Did Draco want to breach that? Potter may have felt comfortable calling him by his first name, but that didn’t mean it went both ways.

“And if I don’t?” he argued as he wiped the back of his hand across his face in the hopes that he had gotten all of Potter’s come off of it. “Then what?”

“I can make you scream my name.” The cockiness was off-putting, but so was his still hard cock. “I just want to make us even.”

Even. Is that what Potter really wanted? Could they ever be even? They came from different circles, walked different paths and had been on opposite sides of a bloody war. He wasn’t sure ‘even’ was attainable when it came to them.

A snap of leather and Draco’s wand was free, and he placed _several_ cleaning charms along his body.

“You didn’t clean your face.”

“Who said the charms were for my face?” There was a pause as Potter licked his lips. “Harry.”

The sharp intake of breath made his cock twitch and he _knew_ Harry caught it with the way a small smirk spread across his lips.

“You did say you wanted my mouth on you.” Harry’s hands spread outward in a welcoming gesture and Draco was too hard to care that it was stupid and cheesy, that Harry was cheesy, that they were cheesy together.

As Draco lifted a leg to straddle Harry’s waist, a nod of disagreement stopped him.

“I want you to turn around.”

“You think you’re that good with your hands?”

“I know I am.”

The cockiness this time around was a turn on. He wanted the proof, wanted to see _just_ how good Harry was with his hands, let alone his mouth. No hands stopped him as he did as Harry wanted and straddled his waist in the other direction.

Hands roamed Draco’s back and he liked that Harry wanted to take his time, most people didn’t. The soft caresses had his eyes closing and he bent forward til his face was resting on Harry’s knee.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Are you talking to my arse?”

The huff of laughter was felt on his lower back and it made him want to glance over his shoulder, but he resisted, that’s what Harry wanted, or at least that’s what _he_ would have wanted if it were reversed.

“Not quite, but your arse is beautiful too.” The words were punctuated by hand kneading his arse cheeks and Draco knew it was his turn for the impatience to rise.

“Pretty, as well.”

Pretty. The words made him scoff at the same time it made him hungry for more. Praise wasn’t something he cared much for but hearing the compliment from Harry _did_ something to him. Made him want to know what else Harry thought of him.

“Are you just going to stare? Or?”

“And if I am?” Another challenge, only this time, Draco wasn’t sure what the wager was. He was at Harry’s mercy and pace.

Before Draco could come back with a retort, Harry’s mouth touched his skin; it started at the base of his spine and moved to his crack. Draco bit his lip to stop any noises from coming out and felt a victory in Harry not knowing. 

The open-mouthed kisses continued onward to each cheek and when Harry sucked a mark into his skin, he couldn’t withhold the moan if he tried.

“Don’t hide again.”

The urge to look intensified but he refused to give Harry the satisfaction. He wasn’t sure how Harry knew, but he didn’t care, not when lips moved lower and lower until they were right where he wanted them.

“Fuck,” Draco swore as Harry sucked on his rim. The grip on his arse tightened and if it bruised, he was going to kill him.

The muffled moan Harry released in response was good, almost too good. It did nothing to quench the greedy nature that Harry inspired.

“More,” he demanded as he placed his hands on Harry’s knee and tried to sit up. A hand left his arse and pushed him back down and he found himself not wanting to fight it. Draco let Harry guide him and let the control he had slip away.

When a finger traced his rim, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the feeling and not on the way his heart rate increased. A wetness that was unmistakably lube accompanied the finger and it was enough to have him looking over his shoulder.

Despite _knowing_ that there would be no wand, it still sent a shudder through him at the proof of Harry’s wandless magic. The lube wouldn’t have been brewed but he could berate Harry’s lack of quality later.

“More.”

“Who says I’m going to give you more?” It was mumbled against his rim and that was almost as good as the moan.

Draco narrowed his eyes before he pushed back against Harry’s face and revelled in the surprised grunt that was released.

“More,” he said again, only raspier and far more demanding. He’d sit on Harry’s face if he had to. The wet finger didn’t tease like he expected it to, no, it went in with no delay.

" _Yes._ " It came out as a hiss, but he was too far gone to care. It had been awhile since he had anyone’s fingers but his own inside him, and Harry’s were thicker than his own thin ones. The glide was smooth but slow, he wanted more, always more.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“What if I want you to?” Harry retorted as his finger went deeper, far deeper than the small thrusts from before. “What if like hearing you get whiny?”

Indignation rose, and he would have turned to glare but another finger was added, and it took his breath away. Fingering was always one of his favourite parts of sex, whether it was done to him or to his partner, the intimacy drew him in.

“I’m not whiny.”

Nothing was said but he didn’t mind, not when Harry’s fingers were a distraction.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

His hands moved before his brain fully processed the request. By the time he had complied the question died on his tongue as a mouth joined Harry’s fingers.

“Oh Merlin.”

Draco gripped Harry’s knees tightly as a tongue breached his hole. Rimming wasn’t something a lot of guys liked to do, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been on the receiving end.

“Just like that.”

Harry grunted, and he felt it, felt it more than just against his arse. He couldn’t help but grip his cock, and the pleasure from that alone caused him to lift off of Harry.

“I’m close.” He could feel it, could feel the build-up and knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.

Another grunt was what pushed him over the edge and he came with Harry’s tongue in his arse, his fingers wrapped around the head of his cock, and Harry’s name whispered from his mouth.

Draco slid till he was resting against Harry’s knees again as he regained his breath. He waited until his mind was less foggy before he cast another cleaning charm, only this time he made sure to get his face too.

“So,” Harry panted, just as out of breath as Draco. “Was I any good with my hands?”

“Piss off.”

The chuckle wasn’t appreciated as Draco twisted around until he was lying the other way, with his head on Harry’s chest. 

“I say nothing until you admit that I have skills with my mouth.”

“You do, fuck you do.”

“You weren’t terrible,” Draco sniffed but he had to time to elaborate before Harry started to tickle his side. “Cruel and unusual punishment, stop. Potter _stop_.”

The sound of Harry’s laughter still made Draco smile and he still loved how free it sounded.

“I like when you call me Harry.” There was a vulnerability in the way Potter said it, as if he was sharing a secret, one that could be used against him.

“Well maybe if you weren’t such a tosser, I’d do it more often.”

A hand wrapped around Draco’s back and pulled him in closer. The warmth between them was nice, and he didn’t want it to stop, didn’t want it to end, didn’t want whatever had happened between them to end either.

“I like you.”

Another vulnerability. Draco lifted his head to stare at Harry, whose eyes had already been on him. Gut instinct was to play it off, make a joke about how no one did, but the intensity to Harry deserved an honest answer.

“I really do,” Harry continued as his fingers rubbed circles into Draco’s back. “Sometimes, when you get mouthy or have an attitude, I’m not sure why, but heaven help me, I do.”

“You know,” Draco began as he placed a kiss to Harry’s chest. “The beginning was nice, but you mucked it all up by the end. Insults don’t belong in confessions.”

“Can it count as a confession if you already knew?”

And he had known, just as Harry probably had known about his own feelings. They hadn’t fooled anyone, not even themselves.

“I like you too.” More than he should but he didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to tell Harry that the reservations he had were his own hang-ups.

“We didn’t even get to play Exploding Snap,” Draco mumbled through a yawn as Harry kissed the top of his head and pulled him in close.

“I don’t even have Exploding Snap.”

His eyes had closed at the beginning but sprang open by the end. “What do you _mean_ you don’t have Exploding Snap? How are you going to host Exploding Snap night and not have any cards?”

“It never came up.”

“I can’t believe I had sex with someone who doesn’t even own a deck of Exploding Snap.”

“I can’t believe I had sex with someone who _cares_ that much about Exploding Snap.”

Draco rubbed his nose on Harry’s chest and hated how warm he felt. “I take it back, I don’t like you.”

“I’ll buy a bloody deck tomorrow,” Harry grumbled before he too yawned and Draco listened to his breathing deepen as the minutes went by.

Perhaps his hang-ups weren’t so bad after all.

\-----------------------------------


	7. Answers

When Draco Flooed into work, he ignored the smirk on Blaise’s face as he stopped by his desk to see if any memos or new requests had been added.

“So,” Blaise prompted with a horribly smug smirk on his face. “I’d ask you how it went but you’ve got a hickey on your neck.”

“Great, then you already know how it ended.” Draco crumpled a few ridiculous requests, all of them from Fudge before he turned towards Blaise and folded his arms across his chest.

“Come on,” whined Blaise. “Don’t be like that. _Spill_.” 

“Did you know that Harry doesn’t even _own_ a deck of Exploding Snap?”

 _‘Harry’_ Blaise mouthed as his brows waggled, which Draco pointedly ignored.

“How could you and Ron try and dupe us together when we are clearly incompatible?”

“Because he doesn’t own Exploding Snap?” Blaise deadpanned, tone unamused.

“Exactly.”

“And what do you mean _try_ ,” Blaise demanded indignantly. “We _did_ dupe you and you didn’t even see it coming.”

Draco narrowed his eyes but said nothing. It wouldn’t help him in the end anyway.

“Hah!” he crowed triumphantly the longer Draco remained silent. “I finally got one over on you and I have yet to hear any kind of gratitude.”

“You want me to thank you?”

“It would be a start.”

He honestly wasn’t sure why he was friends with Blaise, honestly. “Was Ron in on it or did you force him?”

Blaise smiled slightly before it turned into a smirk. “It was his idea, actually.” 

“You’ve corrupted him.”

“Yeah.” It was said far too warmly for Draco’s liking.

“He’s corrupted you too.”

“Yeah.” The smirk melted back into a smile, only it was wide and gross. It was too early in the morning to put up with _love._

“Well it wasn’t appreciated.”

Blaise arched a brow as he squinted at Draco’s hickey, which Draco ignored.

“I didn’t need help.”

“Bullshit,” Blaise argued. “You and Harry were dancing around each other and if we hadn’t intervened, you’d have left it be forever.”

It wasn’t _too_ far off the mark, but Draco wasn’t going to admit anything, nor was he going to thank Blaise. That would only encourage his meddling again in the future.

“I have a lot of work to do,” Draco declared as he stepped away from his desk and ignored Blaise’s whining.

“At least tell me if the sex was good, I have to report _something_ back to Pansy.”

“I’ll be working late so don’t worry about lunch.” He pointedly ignored Blaise’s question as he walked towards the hallway.

“I hate you,” Blaise called after him.

“I love you too.”

Draco paused by his studio door to see Blaise still staring at him with a pout on his face. He sighed heavily before he turned to face him.

“Harry was a Seeker.”

Blaise frowned as his hands fell into his lap. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Seekers are good with their hands.” And that’s _all_ he was going to say.

The whoop of victory Blaise let out caused him to shake his head as he unlocked his studio and shut the door. The silence of the room was welcoming, and he was at ease away from prying friends or invasive questions.

“I knew it,” Blaise’s voice came out of the intercom. “I _knew_ it.”

Or maybe not.

Draco raised a hand to where the mark Harry had left on his skin was and felt a tingle of _something_. Waking up to Harry’s smiling face had been a startling experience, but one he wouldn’t mind repeating.

Perhaps, Blaise did deserve a thank you after all.

\--

Inspiration didn’t always come easy to Draco. Sometimes it was hard to find the energy or other times he knew what he _wanted_ to do but couldn’t bring himself to try. But as Draco combined white and ivory black to create grey for the next layer, the inspiration was alive and well. The portrait was on time for a completion and things were going well.

Music of whatever song teens were into played in the background as he added linseed oil to thin the paint which would help create shadow and structure for the flesh portions of the portrait. The music was catchy, and he couldn’t help but hum along.

Sirius’ bottled magical residue was in one hand and his brush in the other. Draco took a deep breath before he dipped the already saturated brush into the vial. A lot of the finer details softened during the current process and the grisaille became less noticeable. He focused his attention on building up those details and defining them further.

Magic wasn’t easy to work with, especially when it required his own to be syphoned in small measured amounts to ensure that it didn’t overpower the residue. Half his mental abilities were focussed on keeping his magic restricted while the rest tried to paint as if his concentration was full. Hard, but manageable.

With each stroke magic was felt in the atmosphere and he could already see little bits coming to life. A rustle of clothing, a wiggle of a hand or a bare hint of a smile. As he added finer details to Sirius’ hair, he could see it move just a little, enough for him to ease any worries about the final outcome.

Highlights to the skin were next and that was simple, almost too easy. But it wasn’t until he added eyelashes that the nerves started to come in. Too close, it was too close.

One more dip into Sirius’ magical residue and a deep breath later did he begin to add colour to the eyes. The moment the paint hit the canvas, the eyes were already attempting to blink.

“Hold on,” Draco soothed as he shook the vial of residue close to the painting in the hopes that it was enough to calm Sirius down. Too much activity without any kind of finishing seals or protections could lead to a portrait corrupting or cracking. One last stroke and Draco put down his brush and took a step back.

It was done. He was done. Sirius was done.

There was leftover residue but that was quickly stoppered as he waited patiently for Sirius’ portrait to activate completely. Parts of the painting were active, but it was as if the rest was still dormant. When Sirius blinked rapidly and a focus in his eyes was seen, Draco stood up straighter.

Sirius looked around the inside of the painting first before he looked around the rest of the room, eyes stopping on Draco.

“You look familiar? Where am I? Did you paint me?”

“I look familiar?” It came out a little breathless as he stepped forward, but he didn’t care. Not when he had waited _years_ to meet his cousin. He already knew who Sirius would say, no one who looked at him could deny the similarities to his father.

“Like my Uncle Cygnus.”

Draco’s brose rose in surprise, he had _never_ been told that before. Cygnus Black had been his grandfather on his mother’s side, but Cygnus had looked like Bellatrix more than anything, and Draco couldn’t fathom the idea that he looked similar to his grandfather let alone Bellatrix.

“My name is Draco Malfoy.”

“Lucius’ boy?” Sirius’ hand rose to scratch the side of his head as he looked at Draco closer. “I suppose I can see it. I hope you aren’t as much of a tool as he is.”

“Was.”

“Hm? Pardon?” Sirius was polite, and that was odd for Draco. He had expected a wariness, expected distrust, not the opposite.”

“My father died.”

Sirius grimaced as he rubbed the back of his head. “Sorry, my condolences.” There was a pause as Draco fiddled with the sleeves of his knitted jumper.

“How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Azkaban.”

A shuttered look flittered across Sirius’ face and he knew that it was understood, knew that more hadn’t needed to have been said.

“Can I ask you some questions?” Draco asked as he pulled out his notebook. “I need to make sure your memory is accurate before I seal your portrait.”

“So, you did paint me.”

He thought was obvious, so he didn’t respond, just flipped to a new page and held his quill up expectantly.

“Do you know how you died?”

“A spell, right?” The pinched expression on Sirius’ face and the clenched fists was concerning. “I’m having a hard time remembering. I know there was a flash, I know there was a flash of green, and I think there was laughter, but I can’t recall.”

“That’s alright,” Draco soothed when the edges of the portrait began to shake. It was unstable and that wasn’t a good sign. “Sometimes it takes time before all the pieces come together, I just finished painting you.”

It wasn’t quite a lie, he _had_ had some portraits not remember things fully, but that was almost always because something was wrong. Worry began to mount, and he wasn’t sure how to quash it.

“Do you know who your family was?”

“I don’t want to talk about them.” A crack grew on the top of the painting and Draco swore under his breath. Something was _definitely_ not right.

“What of your friends then?”

Sirius relaxed, and his shoulders slumped in what was clearly relief. “They are great. James, Remus and Peter.”

Draco’s mouth parted as his brows furrowed. “Peter? _Peter Pettigrew_?”

The confusion on Sirius’ face matched Draco’s emotions completely and they ended up staring at each other.

“Yes.”

“Oh boy.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m beginning to think so,” Draco mumbled as he tossed his notebook aside and ran his fingers through his hair. If Sirius considered Pettigrew a friend, then something went _horribly_ wrong.

“I don’t understand,” Sirius mumbled. “You painted me, did you not? Shouldn’t you _know_ if there is a problem? What kind of painter doesn’t know their own pieces?”

The lack of faith in his abilities wasn’t encouraging, but Draco couldn’t disprove the opinion. What kind of painter indeed.

As his mind whirled and he tried to figure out if it meant he’d have to start over, the sound of his studio opening made him tense. Blaise _would_ have warned him through the intercom if he was going to enter. The worry that had taken root in his stomach mounted as he turned around and watched Harry enter his studio completely.

“Hey,” Harry’s eyes were soft and open, and Draco wished it was enough to soothe him. It had only been a few days since they last saw each other, and he had already missed him.

“Blaise said you were back here. Don’t worry, I did all the right spells before—” Harry’s breath caught in his throat when he looked passed Draco and caught sight of the painting.

“Wait!” Draco called when Harry rushed forward.

“Sirius,” Harry breathed, his eyes were wide, and a lone hand was held in the air as if he wanted to touch, or to wave. “It’s been so long.”

Sirius’ head was titled to the side and the frown on his face had Draco shaking his head. He already knew what was going to be said and his eyes started to sting already.

“I missed you,” whispered Harry and that’s when Draco’s fingers clenched, and he closed his eyes tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius began, tone hesitant and distant. “But do I know you?”

The silence that settled was the worst silence Draco had ever experienced, he blinked through the tears to see Harry’s face shutter before Harry covered his mouth and a half choked sob broke free.

Harry stumbled backward, and Draco had to reach out to keep him upright.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry snarled as he tore his hands free.

“Harry, I—”

“Don’t.”

“But it’s not—”

“I said don’t!” The vials of paint on his desk shattered and a thick gust of wind blew back Draco’s hair. “I don’t know who that is, but it’s not Sirius.”

Harry turned around and the door swung open automatically and Draco wasn’t sure if it was accidental or intentional magic.

“Wait,” Draco cried as he ran after him. It wasn’t until he made it to the front, where Blaise was leafing through documents that he was able to grab hold of Harry’s arm.

“Don’t touch me.”

Blaise startled at the booming voice and so did Draco.

“Something went wrong, I was trying to tell you that.”

“That’s obvious,” Harry’s back was to Draco and he wasn’t sure if that was better or not. He wanted to be able to see Harry’s eyes, wanted to be able to tell exactly what his face looked like. 

“Why doesn’t he know me?” Harry’s voice cracked, and Draco’s tears fell at how _broken_ it sounded.

Blaise sucked in a harsh breath before he quickly mumbled an excuse and left the room. Part of Draco wanted to call him back, to have some kind of comfort, but he didn’t want Blaise to hear how badly he had failed.

“I don’t know,” Draco shook his head quickly. “I’m missing something. Some part of his life that I haven’t discovered. That’s the only explanation.”

“But I gave you the memories, I let you in, let you see how much he meant to me.”

“I know—”

“So how come that wasn’t there?” Anger, the anger in Harry’s voice made Draco want to take a step back but he couldn’t, he had to hold his ground. “How come I gave you what you wanted, and it didn’t make it into the painting?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he tried to reason. “Your memories added parts to his personality and gave me insight, but if I’m missing a key element to who he was, then it won’t matter.”

“Then what was the point?”

Harry turned around and Draco closed his eyes at how glassy Harry’s eyes were.

“What was the point of all of this if it was for nothing?”

“It’s not for nothing.” Draco’s hands wrung his jumper and he had to wipe his eyes. “I just have to start over, keep digging, keep—”

“No.” Harry took a step back as he shook his head. “I don’t want any part of this. It didn’t work, you tried, let’s forget it.”

No. _No_. Draco couldn’t let it go, not after all the work he put into the painting, not after all of the hours he had put into the research, not after everything he had to do to get as far as he had.

“I can’t, Harry, I can’t.” Draco tried to place a hand on Harry, but it was shaken off roughly and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “This means too much to me.”

Harry’s eyes hardened before they narrowed. “Sirius meant _everything_ to me and your painting, your mockery of who he was didn’t even know me!” The shout was accompanied by the desks rattling and the parchments on them to fall over.

“What more is time going to do? All it did was drag up all of this? And for what? There were no results! There was nothing to show for your work but pain.”

“It’s not for nothing,” whispered Draco as he curled in on himself. “It’s _hard_ to capture those who have died. What I did back there isn’t perfect, but it’s a start, it’s something I can work with, I just have to _keep going._ "

When Harry said nothing, Draco took a step forward but kept his hands down low. “Please don’t give up on me now. I want to finish this out _with_ you.”

“No,” Harry closed his eyes tightly as he stepped further away from Draco towards the door. “I won’t. I refuse. I’m not going through this again. _I can’t._ ” Another crack in Harry’s voice and Draco was sure his heart broke.

“I can’t do this,” Harry whispered and when the tears fell down Harry’s face, Draco didn’t bother hiding his own.

“Harry,” Draco’s own voice cracked. “Please, _please_ don’t leave.”

Harry closed his eyes slowly and just like before, he knew what was to come. Draco covered his mouth as his eyes blurred and his shoulders began to shake.

“I’m sorry.”

And he was gone.

Draco slid to the floor as the sound of the door closing reverberated around the room. He buried his head in knees and let out his frustrations in the only he hadn’t let himself do before. Once the tears started, he wasn’t sure they would stop.

His mind replayed the conversation over and over and each time it felt like a blow to his heart and he _hated_ it.

“Draco.”

When he lifted his head and made contact with Blaise’s worried face, he threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Blaise’s neck.

“He just walked out.”

“I know.” A hand rubbed Draco’s back, but comfort made it worse, he didn’t want comfort, he didn’t want to be coddled.

“The painting is wrong.”

“I know,” Blaise whispered as he sat cross-legged on the ground and pulled Draco into his lap. “I heard, and I’m so sorry.”

A half-sob, half-gasp of air escaped as Draco placed his head on Blaise’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what went wrong.”

“You start over.”

“I can’t. Harry left.”

“You don’t need him, Draco, you never did.”

Draco lifted his head and blinked through the tears. “What do you mean? I couldn’t have gotten this far without his help.” The memories alone helped drastically.

“Alright,” Blaise tilted his head back and forth as if he conceded the point. “But that was just assistance. You have all you can from him. You don’t _need_ him to start over.”

He knew Blaise was right, but starting over without Harry’s help felt wrong, all of it felt wrong and he wondered if it was because he let Harry in—and what did get him? Nothing.

“I don’t know if I can.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and placed his chin on Blaise’s shoulder. “I’m at a dead end.”

“Then re-evaluate what you have,” Blaise offered as he tilted away enough to wipe Draco’s tears away. “I’m no expert like you, but I know _you_ , I know you can do this.”

Faith. Blaise had always faith in him, even when he was fresh out of Azkaban and had little money after his father excluded him in the will. Draco had always tried to do well by Blaise, the best person he had ever come to know, but he felt like the faith was misplaced.

“I don’t believe in me as much as you do.”

“And that’s okay, I have enough for the both of us.”

“You sound like Ron.” Another pang of hurt went through him at the thought of Ron. Would his friend blame him as Harry had? Would he tell Draco to leave it be too?

“Don’t,” Blaise said, tone firm as he wiped Draco’s face again. “I know what you are thinking, I can see it.”

“But—”

“Ron isn’t going to blame you. Things like this happen, we all know that.”

“Harry didn’t, he—”

“He’s hurting,” Blaise stressed as his eyes softened. “As much as you want to know Sirius, Harry already did, and I can’t imagine the pain of thinking you could regain a piece of that for it to be ripped away.”

Guilt spread and despite _knowing_ that it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help but feel like it was.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know that, Ron will know that, and eventually, Harry will too.”

Eventually. He didn’t want eventually, he wanted Harry to understand now, but he knew that was unrealistic, but his heart didn’t feel the same.

“Okay,” mumbled Draco as settled further into Blaise’s hold.

“I’ll start over.” 

Alone. As usual.

\--

**Dear Sirius,**

**__** _I know you told me not to write, but I found myself unable to stop. Romania isn’t what I expected. From what Charlie spoke of, one would think it was lovely, but that comes from someone with privilege. A privilege that I don’t have._

_Seeing how my kind are treated even here, I realised why they will choose to side with Voldemort. Dumbledore may have hope, but I’m living it, and it’s not good. The assignment was supposed to be easy, but there is nothing easy about seeing people in need. I want to help them, but what can the already in need do? What can I offer when I have nothing?_

_Dumbledore wants their service but cares not for their livelihood. Neither does Voldemort, but with Voldemort, there is hope for them. It’s a false hope, nothing but a pretence but it’s something, something that they cling to. Talking to them isn’t going to work, and I don’t want to put in the effort, but I will. Because he’ll know otherwise, won’t he?_

_He always does._

_Werewolf communities aren’t big, most prefer to scatter alone, because when alone it’s easier to hide. Back home, it’s a different story. The ones with power, whether it be underground power or not, are the ones who remain in packs. Packs run by Greyback._

_Did you know that his name is already well known, even out here? They praise him as some kind of second coming but for werewolves. Of all the people to put their faith in, they chose him. What makes it worse are the ones that came from his bites or could be traced back to his pack. How can one side with the person who created their suffering?_

_I hate it here, hate how much I relate to their pain. I’m poor among wizard society, but to werewolves, I am rich. Rich because I walk the streets freely, I walk among powerful wizards and I hold rights that others don’t have._

_What does that say about me? To them I am an apologist, someone who is chained to the system that has put them down for so long. How can I turn a blind eye to their hardships but then ask them to risk their lives for the very people who never cared in the first place?_

_I can’t do that. I won’t do that._

_The longer I am here, the more I wish to just leave. To throw it all away and not look back. I will forever be upset that I never took your offer for what it was. I wish I had. This isn’t our war, this isn’t our fight, but now I am doomed to see it out._

_Regrets, we all have them. But when it comes to you, I have them in spades. I don’t know what to say, Sirius, don’t how to apologise, I never did. Most would think out of the two of us, your pride would be the biggest, but I’m the fool in that regard. For your pride is manageable and mine is somewhere in the middle of having none and having too much._

_There is so much I want to say to you, so much I want to voice, but I don’t know how and I’m not you sure you care anymore. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but I’m hoping this a start, I’m hoping that you’ll see this as the olive branch that it is._

_I miss you. More than you know._

**Forever your friend,**

**Remus**

Draco had already read the letter before, but he was attempting to go back through all of the things Sirius had placed in the lockbox. There weren’t many letters that Sirius had kept from other people. A handful of short ones from Harry, one from Shacklebolt about Order business and then a few from Lupin.

“It’s rude to go through people’s stuff you know.”

“You are dead,” Draco drawled as he pulled out the odd trinkets at the bottom. “What does it matter what I look through?”

“It’s not yours,” the corrupted portrait argued. “That’s mine.”

“Is it?” he returned, hands spread out mockingly. “Because you aren’t really Sirius, nor are you alive.”

“I’m alive enough.”

But it wasn’t enough, and no matter how many times he wished it was true, it wouldn’t do any good to pretend. Draco tuned him out as he began to inspect trinkets closely. What was the point of keeping a rock, Sneakoscope, a blank photo and a broken fang?

“Where did you get that fang?”

Draco looked up at the wary tone and narrowed his eyes at the way the portrait brightened around the edges. The magic had fluctuated, and he wasn’t sure what the cause was.

“It was inside Sirius’ lockbox. It must have meant something to him.”

“It’s mine.”

“The fang?” Draco lifted it up higher to look at it closely. The jagged parts let him know that it wasn’t a clean break, and something had happened to the animal.

“I was in my animagus form. The first time he fought me as a werewolf.”

Draco gave his full attention to the portrait, something he hadn’t done in days. He arched a brow when the cracks along the edges grew deeper. The life of the painting would end soon, and he still didn’t know _why_.

“What was it over?”

There was a pause as he received a frown. “During the full moon, Remus didn’t have control over his mind, not really, but the presence of us as animals calmed him. However, that didn’t always work well. We were _pretending_ to be an animal while in his mind he _was_ one. Animals don’t think like us, they don’t process things like us and they act on instinct. Which can be dangerous if one is on the wrong side of those instincts.”

“What happened?” Draco was curious, part of him didn’t want to listen to the portrait at all, not when he knew it wasn’t complete.

“I’m not really sure. All I remember is that it was only the two of us. James and Peter had been in detention, I had an alibi. So, I was the only one able to go with him. It had started out as it always had, we ran through the forest, howled at the moon, and even messed with other animals. It happened so quickly too, one minute I was trying to make friends with a wolf and the next thing I know, Remus and the wolf were fighting. I stepped in and Remus got me instead of the wolf.”

The painting’s eyes were unfocused, and Draco felt disappointment when more cracks appeared, and the translucent paint began to slowly melt. There wasn’t much time left and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

“I had to get my tooth regrown by Madam Pomfrey. Remus felt guilty for months, no matter how hard I tried to get him to understand that it wasn’t his fault.”

Draco looked down at the fang as he ran his thumb over the jagged pieces. “Why do you think you’d have kept this?”

“I don’t ever remember keeping it.”

The cracks widened the more the portrait’s face grew confused.

“Why don’t I remember?” Light started to poke through and Draco threw up a shield.

“I _should_ remember,” the portrait said, voice coming out distorted. “It’s _my_ memories. I’m Sirius. _Why don’t I remember_?”

“Because you aren’t him,” Draco whispered and when the light became brighter, he closed his eyes tightly and ducked behind his desk.

A scream reverberated around the room and Draco felt the pain in his heart as the magic died out and the painting fractured beyond repair. When he stood up, he had to brace his hands on the desk at the sight of the wrecked painting.

Hours and hours of work destroyed. The paint had bled so much that the underpainting was all that was left, well whatever was seen through the wide gaps, cracks and holes. The corruption was one of the worst he had ever seen, and it hit his pride _hard_.

“Lovely,” Draco kicked the leg of his desk before he picked up the lockbox and turned around and walked out of the studio. Whatever he had hoped to gain from the false painting was gone and there wasn’t any point in redoing it until he knew what the problem was.

“Hey, I didn’t know you’d—”

Draco held up a hand at Blaise’s greeting, he wasn’t in the mood to pretend to be okay, not when he was frustrated, so frustrated that he couldn’t think properly.

“I’ll be gone for a while.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” he said as he turned his back on Blaise and took the cowards way out. “I need to figure this out and I can’t do that locked in my studio.”

“If you take too long, I’ll have to submit one of your other pieces to the Magical Art District.”

“I don’t care.”

“Draco…” It was said on an exhale and he had to grip the edge of the mantle piece to stop himself from turning around.

“I’m not in the right headspace.” It was hard to admit, but Ron had been right about his mental health and Draco couldn’t ignore it much longer. If he stayed in the studio reminded of his failures then nothing would change, nothing would get better.

“Okay,” Blaise sighed heavily. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

His eyes closed tightly before throwing the Floo powder into the fireplace. Leaving was the hardest thing he had done in a long time.

But it was what was the best for everyone. It had to be, there was no other option.

\----------------------------------

The sound of his Floo requesting entrance went off for the third time in an hour and he _knew_ it was Pansy, it was obvious that Blaise had Flooed her, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to hear the comfort smashed between well aimed insults.

It had been weeks of searching for clues inside the things left behind, trying to re-talk to those who had known Sirius but there was nothing, not a single clue that something was missing. How could he have so much information and nothing to go off of? How could something so massive be gone without a single trace?

He pulled out a few photos from the lockbox and ran his finger over his cousin’s face half-hoping it would spark _something_. The longer he stared, the more he wished he had pictures of his friends when they were still in school.

Sirius had his arm around James’ shoulder while both Lupin and James had their eyes on the person taking the photo. A hand from the photographer entered the frame in an attempt to get Sirius to look straight, but his eyes were on Lupin who was laughing widely. The photo was cute, and he could understand why Sirius wanted to keep it.

Draco flipped the photograph over for the first time and noticed the caption on the back. The date had been circled three times and all it said was, _‘The beginning of you’._ He knew he was frowning as he flipped through the rest of the photos to see if they said anything too.

 _‘The middle of you’_ was written on the back of a photo of Sirius, Lupin and Pettigrew. Pettigrew had been scratched out and that let him know that Sirius had looked at the photo after his release from Azkaban. Pettigrew was in the middle with an arm around both Lupin and Sirius’ shoulders, but neither were looking at the camera.

Draco sat up straighter as he flipped over the last photo and saw, _‘You’_ scrawled messily on a lone photograph of Lupin.

“No,” he whispered. It couldn’t have been that easy, couldn’t have been right in front of his face the whole time.

With a half distracted mind, Draco ran to the fireplace and Flooed out.

\--------------------------------

“Draco! I didn’t expect to see you. Normally you avoid me for weeks after I ask you to babysit,” Andromeda said as soon as he exited.

He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. She wasn’t wrong. As much as he loved Teddy, most of his hours were spent in his studio and that didn’t leave room for babysitting.

“Sorry about that, I—”

“Oh hush,” she admonished as she pulled him into a hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m only teasing. It’s nice to see you, but Teddy isn’t here today.”

“That’s alright, I’m actually here to see you.”

“Oh?” Andromeda arched a brow as she moved into the kitchen and gestured for him to sit down. “Must be serious then, your mother hasn’t said anything recently.”

“My mother,” Draco mumbled as he sat down and placed his chin over his outstretched arm. “What did she say about me?” His mother’s relationship with Andromeda was rocky at best and he knew that time wasn’t enough to fix it, but they tried even all these years later.

“That you were working on a new painting.” She looked up from the cupboard she had opened and peered at him sternly. “I have to find out from my sister that you were doing a piece on Sirius.”

“Sorry,” he apologised half-heartedly. It wasn’t often he _told_ anyone what he worked on outside of Blaise. “But I got most of my information from other sources and you didn’t know him that well.”

“I was out of Hogwarts when he started,” Andromeda said with a small smile as she pulled out a cutting board. “You’re right, I didn’t know him well. The few times I saw him was when it was about the Order, but the first war we weren’t in it much. More silent supporters than anything.”

“How come?”

The deadpan expression he got in response had his lips twitching. It made him miss her, and he definitely wanted to leave a memo in his schedule as a reminder to visit more often.

“I’m a Black, no matter who I married, I couldn’t shake that, couldn’t break free of my surname.” The onion in her hand hit the cutting board harder than necessary. “People during the first war didn’t want anything to do with me, not when Bellatrix was a _known_ Death Eater, and my father perpetrated the beliefs that Voldemort believed in.”

“But they had to know you didn’t believe in the same things,” Draco pressed, the outrage he felt bleeding through. “You married a Muggle-born.”

“Common sense goes out the window when prejudice takes over, you know this.”

The blunt jab was exactly why he loved his aunt, even if she was a right pain in his arse.

“So, then you didn’t see much of him?”

Andromeda shook her head. “Just in passing and a few times when he was a child.” She paused with a knife in the air, pointed right at him.

“But you knew that.” Her eyes were narrowed, and he had to fight the urge to sit up straight, as it was his fingers were fidgeting against the table. “What is it you really came here for?”

That was question, wasn’t it? He wasn’t entirely sure if what he suspected was true, or if it was a dead end at the end of a dozen dead ends.

“I know you didn’t know Sirius well, but what of Lupin?”

Andromeda placed the knife down and her eyes hardened slightly as she looked at him. “Remus was a good man, and he loved my daughter.”

“I know he did,” he raised his hands in the air. “But I think he might have loved Sirius too.”

The letters, the trinkets, the photos, he wasn’t sure, but something wasn’t as it seemed, and it was the _only_ thing he could think of.

Andromeda’s eyes closed, and silence settled around the room. The longer he sat there the more he grew worried she’d leave him with nothing.

“They used to fight a lot,” she said after some time. “When they came to live with me during the war. I thought it was just due to confined space and having to move in with family, you know? No one wants that. Especially newlyweds.”

Draco leaned forward, and he wished he had brought his notebook with him.

“It was more than that. Remus was grieving, and I know how that is, know what it can do to someone. I don’t think Sirius and Remus were ever together after Azkaban, but I know that Remus _wished_ they had.”

“Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to.” Andromeda gripped the edge of the counter and looked down. “Tonks loved Remus and he treated her well, but I’ll be the first to admit that they rushed into it. She never tried to fill the gap that Sirius had left, but she wanted to comfort him.”

“And did she?”

“I’d like to think so.” She took a deep breath before she picked back up the knife and began chopping. “I overheard one of their fights and it was about Sirius.”

“That would have been after his death then.”

Andromeda nodded, and her rhythm of chopping faltered briefly. “It was after they found out she was pregnant with Teddy. Tonks wanted Remus there, not just physically but emotionally and it took him some time to figure out how to do that, how to be the father and husband that was needed.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“No,” she huffed, and the knife hit harder than normal on the cutting board. “I know he left for a few days, I think he met up with Harry before he came back with some things and placed it in the attic and said if anything happened to him to leave it be.”

Draco frowned as questions filled his mind. What had Harry said to him? Was it important? What had Lupin brought back?

“Leave it be?”

Andromeda shrugged as she placed the onions in a pot full of water and bewitched it to boil. “I assumed he meant for Teddy to find when he was older, but I don’t know.”

“Do you—” Draco bit his lip as he tried to find a sensitive way to approach it. “Do you think I could look at what he left behind? I won’t take anything.”

Her posture was rigid, and she didn’t turn around to face him. “Only if you promise not to tell me what you find. I want to be left with my memories as they are.”

“I promise.” Relief filled him, and he scrambled to get up. He knew where the attic was and didn’t wait for instructions before he pulled the hatch down and climbed up.

Finding it was easier than he thought it would be, nothing much was in the attic other than Muggle items and boxes of Ted’s things. A small black box sat in the corner, one nearly identical to the lockbox Sirius had only this one wasn’t magical, and the key was already in the lock.

Draco held his breath as approached the box slowly and knelt on the ground. The first thing he noticed when the lock clicked, and the lid sprang open was a Pensieve. It was unusual to see a Pensieve kept in a Muggle container.

As he set aside the Pensieve, the contents of the box became clear and he was a little disappointed to only see one vial and a letter. He had thought that there would be more, maybe random things like the contents of Sirius’ lockbox or clues, _something._

The letter drew his attention, there was no name on the outside and that was curious. Even Sirius’ unsent letters had been addressed to someone. As he picked up the envelope, he had to ignore the brief unease that always rose when he looked through belongings of those who had died. With a held breath, Draco opened the envelope and pulled out the parchment.

**Dear Sirius,**

**__** _You’re dead. Morbid way to begin a letter but you’ll never see it, never know how much it kills me to know that once again I’m alone, only now the hollow hole of your absence is gaping and never ending._

_You’ve been gone for a few years now, but I haven’t been able to let go. I think about you even when I don’t want to. I see things that you liked, and I want to tell you about it. I see things you hated and for a brief moment I think about avoiding it as if you were next to me._

_Is it sad that for as long as you’ve been dead, is the same amount of time you were free? Is that irony? Or fate working against you?_

_I don’t know what to write to you when all I ever wanted was to be able to say it to you. I’ve loved you for so long and I don’t know how to let that go, I don’t know how to go on when everything that I thought was me was taken with you._

_Some of my happiest moments are when we were together. Merlin, we were stupid, young but in love. I don’t think I would be who I am today if you hadn’t been because of who you are. You have shaped my life in so many ways, ways that I never got to tell you._

_I’ve never stopped loving you. Not when we were younger, not when you were in Azkaban, not when you were free and not even now after you’re gone. It hurts to love you, hurts that I won’t ever get to see you again. I have tried so hard to move on and I just don’t know how._

_Tonks came into my life and she’s special, special in a way that you were too. When I’m with her, the pain lessens, and I see who I could be if I were to just let you go. But that’s so hard, because if I do that, then it’s like I’m forgetting what you meant to me and I don’t ever want to forget you._

_I have made so many mistakes but loving you was never one of them. I let you down and I think part of me will always try and repent for that, even though you wouldn’t want that. Perhaps the pain of your death is my atonement, or maybe I’m just a masochist._

_Tonks means a lot to me, and I’m not doing any of us justice as long as I keep this torch for you lit. She deserves more than a distracted partner, deserves more than someone who is too caught up in the past. Because you are my past, Sirius, and as much as my heart aches for you to be my present, I can’t keep deluding myself._

_I can’t keep doing this, because it’s self-destructive and I need to be here fully. I wish I could talk to you, just one more time. I would tell you that I love you and to not cause too much trouble up there with James. I miss him too, miss what it was like back then._

_I’m writing this for closure. I need some way to end it, and even if I can’t send it off, it’ll get my feelings out there. The letter will go in a box for a time when I might want to visit you, to tell you all of this again or just to feel connected._

_I’ve taken out a lot of my memories, which I know doesn’t get rid of the pain or make me forget them, but it dulls it, makes it manageable. I can’t keep going with all of this inside of me, I can’t. This is the only solution I have._

_I have to let you go, and that means letting the memories go too._

_I feel so guilty letting you go, because it feels like I’m giving up, but I’m not. I’m gaining so much in the process. I’m gaining a family, something I haven’t had since I was a young adult, one who had three best friends that were thicker than blood._

_Tonks is that for me. She loves me as much as I loved you, and I want to have the opportunity to love her like she deserves. So, I have to say goodbye to you and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do._

_But please, please know that I love you and I always will._

_Always._

**Forever your friend,**

**Remus**

Draco’s eyes had stung long ago, and he had to blink away the tears. It was exactly what he had been missing. Love had such an impact on a person and every person he talked to hadn’t given _any_ insight into his love life, not really, not like this. It was no wonder Sirius hadn’t recognised Harry, not with such a massive part of his life missing.

Part of him wanted to reread the letter, but he knew his heart couldn’t take it. The emotions had been too real, too raw. With a shaky breath Draco put the letter back and picked up the vial. He wasn’t sure he wanted to view the memories, they were personal and meant a lot to Lupin, but he _needed_ to see who Sirius was in the eyes of someone like Lupin, in the eyes of a partner.

Despite the unease that filled him, he placed the memory in the Pensieve and let it take him in.

“I’m sorry.”

The scenery was undeniably Hogwarts and he was sure it was somewhere near the Forbidden Forest.

“I told you that I’m okay, you don’t have to apologise.”

Sirius couldn’t have been more than 15, if that. His hair was to his shoulders and he watched Lupin closely, far more closely than he expected.

“But I do,” Lupin pressed, hands coming up to grip Sirius’ shoulders. “I knocked out one of your teeth, a whole fang.”

“And Madam Pomfrey fixed it,” Sirius smiled widely, far wider than necessary as if he was attempting to show _all_ of his teeth.

Lupin bit his lip before his hands fell limply by his side. “But still. You have to know that I would _never_ hurt you intentionally.”

“Moony.” Sirius’ voice was soft, not in volume but in the way he said it. “I know, believe me, I do.”

“Yeah?” Lupin asked as he peered up at Sirius through his lashes, lip still caught between his teeth.

“Yeah,” he retorted as he placed a hand on Lupin’s wrist and pulled him deeper into the forest. “I know you, you’re my forever friend.”

Lupin smiled for the first time since the memory began and it transformed his face as his eyes shone as he looked at Sirius.

“Your forever friend, I like it.”

Draco watched them smile at each other as the memory faded and he wondered if it was the beginning, the beginning of whatever they meant to each other.

Giggling was the first thing that registered as the next memory began and he had to squint to see anything. It was dark, far darker than he expected.

“We don’t have much time.”

Draco’s forehead wrinkled the longer he squinted but he was sure that had been Lupin’s voice. There were beds, at least 5 of them and that suggested they were in the Gryffindor dorms.

“Then shut up and kiss me,” Sirius demanded and that caused another round of laughter.

“That’s not romantic!”

“Oh? You want romance, Moony, I can do that.”

“No, you can’t, you’re a dork. James has more romance in him than you do and _that’s_ saying something.”

Draco’s eyes adjusted to the low light in time to see Sirius pin down Lupin in an attempt at tickling him.

“Okay! Okay! I give up, you win, you aren’t a dork.”

“What about the rest?” Sirius asked still on top of Lupin as he adjusted to his elbows. “I know I have more romance inside me than James. He tried to compliment Evans last week by saying her eyebrows got less bushy.”

Lupin snorted as he ran a finger down Sirius’ cheek. “Alright, maybe you have _some_ romance inside you.”

“Enough for you to kiss me?”

That caused Lupin to blush and Draco couldn’t help but smile. They were cute, in a gross kind of way.

“How do we know we won’t be interrupted?”

“I charmed that Sneakoscope I nicked from Filch’s office to warn us.”

“You mean the broken one?” Lupin arched a brow and it was Sirius’ turn to blush.

“It still works, I think.”

Lupin laughed brightly, and Draco watched as Sirius visibly melted.

“Why do I like you?”

“I ask myself that every day,” Sirius whispered before Lupin surged upward and pressed his lips against Sirius’.

Draco wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem like they were comfortable kissing each other just yet, and maybe that meant it was one of the first few times. He had to look away when they began to roll around on the bed. _That_ wasn’t what he signed up for.

“Sirius.”

“Yeah?” It was panted and out of breath and Draco was grateful they were inexperienced teenagers because any more of that and he would’ve tried to find a way to leave.

“I think I just sat on the Sneakoscope.”

The memory ended as they laughed so loud the door burst open and in came James and Pettigrew. The last thing Draco saw was Remus’ hands still in Sirius’ hair and two bright smiles on their faces.

A splash of water greeted him when the next memory started. The Black Lake. He looked around and caught sight of Lupin and Sirius skipping rocks into the lake.

“It’s bloody cold out here,” Lupin complained as he threw his rock so hard it didn’t skip and only plopped right in.

“I didn’t know you were such a baby,” Sirius mocked as he stuck his tongue out in concentration and skipped the rock so hard it bounced ten times across the water.

“Bloody show-off.”

“Ah, don’t be like that, Moons, it’s just skill, you might get some one day.”

Lupin glared as he shivered in his jacket, scarf over his face and only his eyes were visible.

“I hate you.” It was muffled by the scarf and clearly missing the heat of the insult because Sirius grinned widely and threw his arms around Lupin.

“Well, _I_ happen to love you.”

When Lupin froze and so did Sirius.

“You do?”

Sirius looked around the vicinity as if hoping someone was around for guidance and Draco snorted.

“Yeah,” he whispered as he looked down at the ground, unable to meet Lupin’s eyes. “I do.”

“Padfoot.” Lupin threw his arms around Sirius nearly sending them into the lake as they landed on the shore. “I love you too.”

There was something hopeful about watching young love. Despite how young they were, it was obvious how much Sirius and Lupin cared about each other.

“There’s a rock digging into my back,” Sirius mumbled against Lupin’s lips before he pulled it out from underneath him.

“Looks like the perfect kind of skipping stone,” Lupin said as he pocketed it. “But I don’t care about that, I would rather snog my dumb boyfriend senseless, since he loves me after all.”

“He’d love you a lot more if you quit insulting him.”

They kissed again as the memory faded, it was mostly smiles but it was cute, in a gross kind of way.

“Will you quit? I’m going to take the photo.”

Bickering was what registered as the new memory started and Draco didn’t recognise the place. It wasn’t Hogwarts, and Lupin and Sirius were definitely older. Not by a whole lot, but perhaps their late teens or early twenties.

“Why do you get to take the photo?” Sirius pouted, and Draco could see the resemblance to the 15-year-old of the first memory.

“Because I’m responsible and you aren’t.”

“That’s a biased opinion since you are only taking your own say so into account.”

“No,” Remus argued as he fiddled with a camera. “Believe me, everyone that knows you thinks you are a lost cause.”

Sirius gasped as he covered his heart with his hand dramatically. “You wound me, I shall never recover from this betrayal.”

“Will you shut up? I’m trying to make us look good for the photo.”

“I still don’t see why the photo is necessary. I’ll only be on an Order mission for a few months. I’ll even be back in time for Halloween.”

Lupin put the camera down and frowned. “Yeah, but it’s the first time we’ve had to say goodbye to each other.”

“You going to miss me?” It was said with a smirk, but Draco could tell that Sirius meant it, that he was worried.

“I love you, you bloody moron, _of course_ I’m going to miss you. I’m your forever friend.”

Sirius pulled Lupin into a tight hug and kissed the top of his head. “Alright, let’s take the photo so you have something to remember me by.”

They were supposed to have been smiling at the camera, but they were too focussed on each other and it made his heart ache for what they lost later on in life.

It wasn’t until Sirius put the photo in the developing potion and cackled loudly that it clicked.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re the responsible one, huh?” Sirius held up a blank photograph, something had gone wrong.

Lupin plucked the photo out of Sirius’ hands and smiled down at it. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No,” Sirius argued with a snort. “It’s downright hilarious.” He sidestepped the smack to the back of the head that Lupin attempted without looking.

“We could try again?” Sirius offered when Lupin said nothing. “Maybe James gave us a faulty one, he is a cheap bastard.”

“No, it’s okay,” Lupin looked up and smiled softly. “I don’t need a photo to remember your ugly mug.”

“Oi!”

They chased each other around the flat as the memory ended and their laughter echoed around the memory and even into his own mind.

“I don’t understand!”

Draco looked around rapidly at the anger in Lupin’s voice. Sirius wasn’t around but Dumbledore was. Lupin had tear tracks along his face and Dumbledore appeared solemn and sad.

“Neither do I, all I can give you are the facts.”

“You haven’t said any yet,” Lupin argued as he wiped his face. “Sirius wouldn’t do it! He wouldn’t have given them up.”

“But he did.”

“You don’t know that.” It was more of a plea than anything as Lupin blinked rapidly and more tears fell. “Sirius loved James and Lily, they are— _were_ family.” The last few words were stuttered and croaked, and Draco felt like crying himself.

“James and Lily _chose_ Sirius to be their Secret Keeper. What other explanation is there?”

“Please don’t give up on him,” Lupin begged. “ _Please_ , he’s all I have. I know he wouldn’t.”

“Remus.” The tone was firm, and Draco knew from Dumbledore’s expression that nothing would come of it. “What would you have me do? Ignore the evidence against him? I can’t do that, you know I can’t.”

“No,” Lupin cried as his fingers clenched. “He couldn’t have done it, he wouldn’t have.”

“I know it’s hard to hear, even loved ones can turn on you, but you must not give up hope.”

Tears fell down Lupin’s face as he glared at Dumbledore.

“What of Harry? What will happen to him? I can take him.”

“No.” The finality startled Draco as it did Lupin who jumped a little and frowned. “He will live with his aunt and uncle.”

“You can’t be serious. Lily’s sister _hated_ them, that’s not going to change overnight. You are putting him with relatives that won’t care!”

“It’s what’s best for Harry.”

“But you don’t know that,” Lupin argued. “I can give him love! I can care for him.”

“The Ministry wouldn’t allow it.”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. That was a low blow. Using Lupin’s status as a werewolf now of all times was _cruel_.

Lupin’s face shuttered and his shoulders shook before he turned around and walked away, ignoring Dumbledore’s call of his name. The memory ended, and Draco’s heart was already bruised.

It was dark, far darker than the last memory, and he had to squint just to make out his surroundings. The paintings on the wall were familiar and he knew they were members of the Black family. Dark Objects placed strategically on the walls, shelves and even the floor let him know that he was inside the Noble House of Black.

The outline of two people sitting across from each other on rickety old chairs drew his attention. The dim light didn’t help but he recognised Lupin immediately. The tired eyes, gaunt expression and perpetual wrinkles were traits that weren’t easily forgotten. Draco’s eyes snapped to the other man in the room and had a hard time seeing the younger version of Sirius inside the person who sat before him.

Sirius had not aged as well as Lupin, and _that_ was saying something.

Whereas the teenage Sirius had been young and vibrant, _this_ Sirius was weary, older beyond his years and just tired. Less wrinkles in areas than Lupin, but more worry lines than someone of his age. Sirius’ hair was long, a bit matted and sprinkled with many grey strands.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Sirius’ voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t speak often. “I don’t know why you came.”

“You _know_ why I came,” Lupin stressed as his hands wrung together. “You are my friend. I’m your for—”

A harsh bark of laughter echoed around the kitchen and it made not only Lupin jump, but Draco as well.

“You were never one for jokes, Remus. Why start now?”

“Sirius, I _am_ your friend.”

“Really? Because I remember being taken by Aurors for a crime I didn’t do, and you weren’t there. I remember being sentenced to Azkaban without a trial and there was no word from you. I remember no appeals, no questions, no petitions, and I certainly remember wondering why _you_ of all people had abandoned me.”

“Sirius,” Lupin whispered, eyes glassy as he blinked, and tears escaped. “What was I supposed to think?”

“That I was innocent. That I didn’t do it. That you _knew_ me!”

Lupin lowered his eyes as he looked at the table, hands still moving. “I lost everything that night, you included. The media was saying one thing, Dumbledore wasn’t defending you, James and Lily were gone, Harry was taken to the wretched Muggles and I was _alone_. I didn’t know what to believe!”

“At least you had freedom! At least you had the ability to try and move on while I rotted in a cage surrounded by my worst memories! And the absence of your defence was absolutely one that was repeated frequently.”

“Sirius.” It was a request, as if Lupin was begging Sirius not to continue.

“I couldn’t move on. I couldn’t pack up and leave,” Sirius whispered, eyes cold and hard. “I had to relive everything while in Azkaban. I was treated like garbage, forced to be around Dementors constantly and if you think that they give prisoners an ounce of respect then you’d be wrong. Nearly half my life was spent in Azkaban and I was _innocent_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Sirius spread out his arms, palms upward. “What does your sorry do me? What does your regret get me now?”

“A second chance?”

Sirius palms twitched before they clenched tightly.

“I hate this. I hate the part of me that feels bad for you. As if I should care. I hate to see you grovel and I hate that I want it anyway. I don’t know what to do, Remus.”

“Me either,” Lupin murmured, barely above a hoarse whisper. “I wish I could rewind the time, do it all over again and make better choices.”

“I don’t.” Sirius’ eyes weren’t on Lupin, they were unfocused but hard. “Because I learned exactly who you were, and I learned that I can only trust myself.”

A wounded noise left Lupin’s mouth as he blinked at Sirius. Draco wasn’t sure what to think, the Lupin he saw argue against Dumbledore hadn’t given up on Sirius, hadn’t quit.

“I want to be there for you,” Lupin sat up straighter in his chair. “I want to prove to you that I can be the friend you deserve.”

Sirius’ shoulders slumped, and Draco felt sorry for him, sorry for everything that had happened. It wasn’t fair, none of it. 

“You didn’t believe in me,” Sirius’ voice cracked, and Draco had to close his eyes. “You weren’t just absent, you heard the crimes and _abandoned_ me. How am I supposed to think you won’t leave me to rot here?” Arms gestured around the room as Sirius sneered at the decorations and portraits on the wall.

Lupin’s mouth opened only to close as Sirius narrowed his eyes.

“You are here because _Dumbledore_ says I am innocent, but when it was _Dumbledore_ that said the opposite, you were so quick to believe, so ready to throw away everything we had away for a man that is just as political as Voldemort.”

“Dumbledore—”

“Is the Light lord of the man we oppose, fights for justice but is a lord nonetheless. Dumbledore abandoned me too, don’t forget that. A man so righteous, so morally profound but yet he let me be taken without a trial. He was on the Wizengamot and he watched me be chained, watched the guards take me and watched the Dementors flank me. Some Light Wizard, huh.”

“He let me into Hogwarts.”

“Only you,” Sirius’ hands entwined behind his head. “Funny how he gives you a chance and not the hundreds of other werewolf children. What made you so special?”

“Sirius why are you questioning this?” Lupin’s brows were furrowed, and his voice was higher than normal.

“Because someone should. If you put your blind faith in someone then you lose sight of reality. And mine came quicker than it will for you, but one day it will. There will come a time when you will question his motives, and I only pray that someone doesn’t have to die for you to see the truth.”

Sirius stood up, the chair falling over in the process.

“The only reason I am here in this shithole is because of Harry. The only reason I bothered coming back is because of him. He didn’t ask for any of this, he didn’t ask for another war, for a madman to murder his parents and he certainly didn’t ask to be raised by the filth that did. If he was my son, I would take him away from all of this. Dumbledore, Voldemort, the war, and even you.”

“ _Sirius_.”

“We’ll never have the friendship that we used to, never be what we were, but I can’t speak for the future. You want to show me that you’ll be here for me, then do it. Be here, Remus. Be here for me, for _once._ ”

Sirius walked out of the room and he expected a clang as the door shut, but it didn’t, only closed with a small snap and the sound echoed far louder than it should have.

A sob drew his attention towards Lupin, and the tears on his face were hard to look at. Regret, that’s what Draco’s eyes couldn’t look away from. He had seen that in the mirror far too many times to count.

He didn’t understand why Lupin didn’t fight harder during the exchange. He had _seen_ how passionately Lupin had defended Sirius to Dumbledore, why not voice that? Or had his mind been changed along way?

Confusion was all he felt as the memory faded, and he was swept into a new one.

“You really kept all of this?”

Draco looked around and noticed they were back inside the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. There was less distance between Sirius and Lupin and they Sirius looked at Lupin in a way that reminded Draco of the earlier memories.

“Yeah,” Lupin whispered as he gently tipped over a small bag. Draco recognised the tooth, the Sneakoscope, the rock, and the photograph.

Sirius hesitantly reached out to pick up the tooth. “That hurt like a bitch.”

“You told me it didn’t!”

Sirius smiled, it was small and barely there, but it was visible. “You were ready to cry, I would have told you anything to make that not happen.”

Draco wasn’t sure what was going on between them. It was clear some time had passed since the last memory. They weren’t as tense, but they also weren’t exactly warm either.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” Sirius continued, a question in his tone.

“It was the first time I knew I cared for you more than a friend.”

Sirius looked up and his eyes were unreadable, Lupin matched the stare and Draco wished he knew either of them enough to decipher any of it.

“And the Sneakoscope? If I remember correctly you broke it.”

“It was already broken you twat.”

Lupin narrowed his eyes when Sirius’ lips twitched.

“That was when we had our first kiss.”

Sirius took a deep breath before he picked up the rock. “I told you I loved you for the first time by the lake.”

There was no reply as Lupin nodded his head and played with the ends of his sweater nervously.

“I didn’t know you kept this.”

“I kept everything that reminded me of you.”

Sirius’ eyes closed tightly, and he wondered if they had talked about what had really happened after Sirius had been taken to Azkaban.

“And the photograph?”

“The first I had to say goodbye to you, only when you came back I lost you again.” Lupin was the one to close his eyes as he turned away from the table and clenched his fists. “I brought you these because I wanted you to have them. They comforted me while you were in Azkaban, and I don’t know if they mean anything to you, but I thought it might help you while you are here.”

The sound of a chair scraping was enough to have Lupin flinching. Draco watched Sirius walk around the table and crouch in front of him.

“Thank you,” Sirius whispered as he placed a hand on Lupin’s knee. “They mean a lot to me, they always have.”

Lupin blinked down at Sirius with glassy eyes and Draco tried not to sniffle.

“As do you, Moony, you’re my forever friend.”

They smiled at each other, it was tentative, new and for a brief moment as the memory faded, he wondered if that led to anything, if their hearts had been able to find their way back to each other.

As the new memory began, the only thing Draco could hear was shouting. He looked around and quickly closed his eyes. “No,” he mumbled over and over. Not again.

“Sirius!”

It was Lupin’s version of what happened the night Sirius died, and Draco couldn’t bear to see it again. Not when he was so emotionally invested, not after being affected by the other memories.

“He’s gone, Harry, he’s gone.”

The previous time he had watched the memory he had focused on Harry, but this time he heard the heartbreak in Lupin’s voice and it killed Draco just as much as the screams that Harry let out.

Draco tuned out the cries, the yells and the curses as the Death Eaters were rounded up. Harry had run after Bellatrix, but his eyes were on Lupin, who collapsed against the wall and buried his head between his hands and sobbed.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder and Draco watched Tonks crouch in front of Remus, her hair was a mousy brown and tears stained her cheeks.

“He’s gone, Tonks, he’s really gone.”

“I know.” She tried to wipe his tears, but he shook his head rapidly.

“I loved him.”

Tonks sat on the floor cross-legged in front of Lupin and wrapped him up in a very odd hug. “And he loved you too, _so_ much.”

Lupin let her hold onto him tighter as he cried on her shoulder. “I don’t think I can do this. I lost him once and I only just got him back, how am I supposed to go on? I don’t— _I can’t._ "

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her own voice hoarse. “But I do know that Sirius cared for very little these days, but he loved you and Harry, and you _know_ he did. Don’t lose yourself in the process of losing him. He wouldn’t want that.”

The memory faded as Lupin and Tonks cried together and that was the last memory.

Draco couldn’t stop his own tears as they fell. Sirius’ life had been pure shit, and it never looked like he got a break. Even when he found love, that ended in heartbreak. He bottled the memory, half-distracted before everything was in place and back in the box.

Lupin loved Sirius, loved him deeply in ways that Draco didn’t see often. He ached for them, ached for what they lost so early in life. As he walked out of the attic and down the stairs, he wiped his eyes, lost in his thoughts.

“Uncle Draco!”

Draco startled as he walked back into the kitchen to see Andromeda, Teddy and Harry. Lovely.

Teddy’s smile faded as he looked Draco closely.

“Are you okay?”

The hesitant question and sad eyes tugged at Draco’s already vulnerable state and his stung more.

“I’m okay.” It came out croaked and he knew no one bought it. He tried to wipe his eyes discreetly, but he was the centre of attention

Andromeda pulled him into a hug and Draco clung tightly. She was tense, and he knew she worried what he’d say.

“He loved her.”

She relaxed, and the hug tightened. He wasn’t sure what exactly Andromeda thought, but Lupin loved Tonks, very much.

“Thank you.”

“I wanna hug Uncle Draco too.”

Small hands wrapped around Draco from behind and he tried to reach around and pat Teddy on the head, but it didn’t work well. The small giggle Teddy released warmed him and made him feel immensely better.

It wasn’t until both Andromeda and Teddy backed away that Draco felt composed enough to see Harry. They hadn’t spoken since Harry walked out of his studio and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. It had hurt then, and it still did, but he couldn’t pretend none of it was his fault.

“Harry.” He tried to pass it off as a polite greeting, but it failed with how emotional it sounded.

“Draco.”

“Come on Teddy, let’s give them some alone time.”

“But I wanted to see what would happen. Harry said that Uncle Draco was b—”

“Okay,” Harry said loudly as he narrowed his eyes at Teddy. “That’s enough.”

The sound of the kitchen door cut off Teddy’s laughter and Draco still wondered how the kid had been placed in Hufflepuff and not Slytherin.

Harry stepped up in front of Draco and cupped his cheek. His eyes closed at the contact and he couldn’t help but nuzzle into the palm.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Harry. “I shouldn’t have left like that.”

“I should have done better,” Draco said quietly as he tightened his eyes harder till it hurt. “I felt like something was missing and kept going.”

“No, don’t blame yourself. I did some research after I talked to Ron and you weren’t kidding when you said your job is hard.”

A weak chuckle left Draco and he opened his eyes to see a softness to Harry’s eyes that reminded him of the way Lupin looked at Sirius and he hated that his emotions got to him again as tears formed.

“Hey,” Harry soothed as his thumb wiped his tears away. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just, Sirius’ life, you know? I don’t know how he did it.”

He had expected Harry to go still or show some kind of reaction but there was only a sad smile on his face.

“I think he was just really strong.”

Yeah, he was. Draco had seen it.

“And Lupin loved him.”

“What?”

Harry’s thumb stopped moving in circles as he blinked down at Draco.

“Like real love?”

Real love. He almost snorted, as if anything Lupin and Sirius had could’ve ever have been anything but real love.

“I saw it in his memories. He’s got a bunch in the attic, and that’s what I was missing.”

“His love?”

Draco shook his head as he placed a hand over the one still touching his cheek. “Sirius’ love. Before, I had nothing serious for love when developing him. Not a single person that I talked to ever mentioned any serious relationships he had, and _no one_ brought up Lupin.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry whispered, and Draco watched his brows furrows and his forehead wrinkle. “They were close, but I just assumed it was because they were best friends.”

So had everyone else. Draco pushed Harry’s hand aside and placed it around his waist so that he could hug him, which garnered a laugh, a laugh that he had missed.

“You could just ask for a hug, you know.”

Draco tilted his head back and peered up at Harry. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Harry moved till their foreheads were pressed together. “After I left, I regretted it.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“I needed to figure out my emotions, what was bothering me and then what I wanted in the end.”

“Yeah?” Draco prompted as he bumped his nose against Harry’s. It felt nice being embraced and he welcomed it, felt as if Harry’s warmth was a soothing balm after the emotionally draining day he had.

“And what did you decide.”

“That it’s worth it.”

“The painting?”

“No,” Harry rolled his eyes. “You, _you_ are worth it, you idiot.”

If Draco’s emotions weren’t a mess he would have responded with a mature insult compared to the immaturity that Harry clearly possessed, but his heart had skipped a beat, and then another as he stared at Harry.

“I am?” No one had ever told him that, not his parents, not any past partners nor his friends. No one had ever looked at him and thought he was worth taking a chance on.

“Of course you are.” The indignation Harry felt on Draco’s behalf was everything to him.

“I really like you,” he whispered as he pressed a chaste kiss to Harry’s lips, just a barely enough to count as a peck. “More than I should.”

“More than you are willing to risk?”

Another peck only slightly longer. “You are worth it, Harry, always have been.”

“Do you think we could start over?”

Draco shook his head as he placed a kiss to Harry’s cheek and then his nose. “Don’t need to. I’ve learned a lot about love and relationships, and maybe I’m biased or only have a narrowed view, but I think we can just keep going.”

“Alright.” Harry had apparently had enough of the small pecks because he captured Draco’s lips in a kiss, it was soft but searing. It said a lot of things that neither had voiced but it comforted him and showed how worth it they were, together.

“Ew, they’re kissing!”

Draco smiled into the kiss but didn’t want to back away, not when he was reminding himself of what it felt like to be in Harry’s arms.

“Grownups do that sometimes.”

“I never want to grow up.”

He tuned out their conversation when Harry kissed him again and again and _again_.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Draco mumbled when Harry pressed soft kisses to his forehead and then eyelids. “I could show you my flat, since I actually own Exploding Snap.”

Harry snorted, and the huff of air was felt on his skin. “Don’t you have a painting to finish?”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes widened. “You mean that?”

The soft smile he got in return melted him completely and he blamed Ron for making him susceptible to such a Gryffindor notion and then blamed Harry for making him fall deeper into his emotions.

“I do, I really do. You should get a chance to meet him. I think he’ll like you, I know I do.” There was a slight pause as Harry bit his lip. “And maybe later we can talk about that night? About what happened and why I was upset? I want our communication to improve if this is to go somewhere.”

Draco ignored Teddy’s whining as he kissed Harry again only deeper as he wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck.

“Thank you.” He hadn’t needed Harry’s approval, he would have done it anyway, but to have his support meant the world. “We can talk however long you like.” He had things he wanted to say too, to explain himself better.

“And I promise I won’t intervene until you are _ready_ to show me the final piece,” Harry said with a sheepish shrug.

Draco looked around the room to make sure Teddy wasn’t in ear shot when he whispered, “I don’t know if I want to kiss you or fuck you.” 

“Lucky for you, I like the idea of both.”

It wouldn’t be easy, but as Draco stood in Andromeda’s kitchen and stared at Harry, he felt happy and at peace for the first time in a long time. Harry wasn’t the cause or the catalyst but Harry _was_ someone to walk next to, someone to be there beside, someone to exist with.

And maybe, just maybe if they were lucky, Harry could be the Remus to his Sirius.

\--

When Draco Flooed into work, he expected to see no one. It was well into the lunch hour and Blaise had said something about visiting Ron on his only day off. But as he stepped out of the Floo and saw Blaise, Ron and Harry standing there waiting for him, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“What’s going on?”

The three of them grinned and that made it _that_ much more suspicious.

“You’re late,” Blaise reprimanded as he folded his arms across his chest.

“No, I’m not. My session with my Mind Healer ran over and besides, it’s my lunch break.”

“He’s not saying you are late for work, he’s saying you are late to celebrate,” Ron argued.

Draco looked around hoping that _something_ would give him a hint as to what they were talking about because he was clueless. It wasn’t until he spotted a book on his desk titled, _Lies the Ministry Told Us: Everything Your Professors Got Wrong,_ that it made sense.

“No,” he whispered as he snatched it off the desk and inspected it closely. “That’s a bold title.” He looked up at Harry who was rubbing the back of his neck.

“That’s me though; bold.”

“H.P. James,” Draco whispered as he glanced down at the name on the spine.

“Closest I’ll get to putting my real name on a book.”

“People might figure it out.”

Harry shrugged as he took the book out of Draco’s hands and pulled him into a hug. “I’ll deny it.” A slow smirk curled Harry’s lips and Draco almost wanted to step back.

“Besides,” Harry continued. “My new publisher has a confidentiality contract, they can’t share any information about me, not even under a Ministry sanction.”

“Oh?” Draco batted his eyelashes in what he hoped was a decent attempt at being innocent. “Sounds a bit shady.”

“Mhm,” Harry’s lips twitched. “Weird thing too, they reached out to me.”

Draco looked at Harry’s chin, unable to meet his eyes. “That’s odd.”

“It was almost as if they _knew_ I had a book in the works.”

“Small world,” he said slowly as he glanced up and melted at how expressive Harry’s eyes were. It was so easy to see the emotions, Harry wore his heart on his sleeve and Draco loved that.

“Thank you.”

Harry placed a finger on Draco’s chin and tilted it back as Draco whispered, “You deserve the world, Harry. I did the minimum.”

Lips pressed against this own, softly, barely there and he revelled in it.

“No, you did the maximum and I like you for that.”

“You like me,” Draco teased as he kissed the tip of Harry’s nose. “That’s gross.”

“And gay,” Ron hollered despite being in the same room. “Don’t forget gay.”

“Why do we put up with him?”

“I have no clue,” Harry whispered as his nosed along Draco’s cheeks. “He’s hopeless.”

“Oi! I’m right here.” When they said nothing Ron huffed loudly. “Come on Blaise let’s see if lunch is done.”

“Lunch?” Draco almost rubbed his stomach as it grumbled. He hadn’t had time to eat anything.

“It’s for the celebration,” Blaise said as he hugged them briefly despite being still wrapped together. “Hermione let us use some kind of Muggle burners, Ron’s got food cooking.”

“Yeah, but they don’t get any now,” Ron argued as he pulled Blaise with him into the back room. “They are ungrateful pricks.”

“I really do like you,” Harry murmured as Ron slammed a door and Draco snickered.

“Because I yelled at you?”

He could feel a smile pressed into his skin and he knew one was mirrored on his own face.

“It’s definitely because you yelled at me.”

“I like you too.” Months of repeating the same thing would never get old. He liked Harry and his heart did too.

“I’m proud of you,” Draco continued as he looked over his shoulder at the history book. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Thank you.”

Draco couldn’t wait till he sent a copy of the book off to Amos, the book deserved to be used in Hogwarts’ curriculum.

The sound of the clock screaming that lunch was over startled Harry, who hadn’t gotten used to the bloody thing.

“I have to go,” Draco said before he pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. “I have to see to something in my studio.”

“Okay, don’t be long or Ron will eat all the food, you _know_ he will.”

Draco snorted at the lack of a joke. Ron _would_ eat all the food.

As he walked down the hall, he ignored the new addition to the wall of plaques. Blaise was proud of Draco’s double certification, but it had been on a reject piece and Draco loathed that his best work hadn’t been judged. He’d just have to try for a third certification next year.

Draco took a deep breath before he opened the door to his studio and activated his cleaning charms to rid him of any outside magical residue.

“It’s about time you got back. Who activates a painting and then leaves? I have been here _forever_.”

The bitter drawl made his stomach clench in nerves as he stepped forward and eyed the portrait carefully.

“Are you the one who painted me? If so, you need to redecorate. The walls are full of half-finished portraits, and I got to tell you, that does nothing for my confidence in you.”

The insult caused his lips to twitch. There was no colouring issues, no cracks and the edges were intact despite the lack of contact after the painting had been activated.

“You look kind of familiar.” Furrowed brows accompanied the statement and Draco ignored the déjà vu feeling.

“Oh?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Lucius Malfoy?”

“I can’t say they have,” Draco retorted with a grin. Despite the pain of never being seen as himself instead of his father, it was a step in the right direction regarding the validity of the painting.

“Well, I can understand that, I wouldn’t want to be told I look like him. He’s a twat.”

“Was.”

“Hm?”

“He died in Azkaban.”

“Oh ho!” The portrait cried as a knee was slapped for emphasis. “Old Lucy finally went to Azkaban?”

The lack of respect for his father didn’t bother him, not like it would have his mother, but that was okay.

“Did you know him?”

“Lucius?” Draco asked as he stepped forward and pulled out one of Blaise’s fancy frames. “Yeah, I knew him.”

When he looked up, he was met with an expectant gaze.

“He was my father.”

The raised eyebrows weren’t something Draco was used to, not after the memories. He had been under the impression that it was hard to surprise him.

“You’re Narcissa’s son?”

Draco gripped the frame tightly as he took a deep breath and glanced up at Sirius. There was no derision on Sirius’ face, no disappointment, only open curiosity and a small smile. That alone soothed the nerves and fought all his insecurities.

It would be okay.

“My name is Draco Malfoy and I’ve waited a _long_ time to get to know you…”

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I know that this isn't quite the ending you might have thought, or perhaps predicted, but for me, the story was about Draco. Finding his way through it all and coming to grips with who he was, wanted to be and how to keep going. I may do something in the future about Sirius and Harry meeting, but that isn't necessary to the plot, my story or how I saw it originally. I thank you all so much for giving this a shot and I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> -XxTheDarkLordxX


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